


And All That He Was

by bertallman



Category: The Used
Genre: Depression, Friendship, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertallman/pseuds/bertallman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bert is a struggling artist with a crappy job at a diner, and despite his best efforts, work just isn’t that easy to come by. With constant money worries, a family he can’t speak to and friends he is losing contact with, his life isn’t exactly what he would class as perfect. Not to mention his unrequited love for his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Among The Living

**Author's Note:**

> Short series based off the song Poetic Tragedy. Unlimited thanks to Riley, I would never have gotten this finished if it wasn't for all your help and support c:

_The cup is not half empty as pessimists say_

_As far as he sees, nothings left in the cup…_

The letter sat unopened on his table. It was another rejection, Bert could tell. It was too thin to contain the relevant information and health and safety forms. He knew from experience that it would contain a single sheaf of paper, detailing how they were ‘sorry, but this position has already been filled…’, perhaps offering him some mundane office work instead.

Bert had long since given up hope of finding a writing job, not in this town anyway. He blamed it on having no university degree, putting him at an unfair advantage, but in reality there was just no work for writers in the current economic climate, especially those without prior experience in the field. And even with two years of applying, Bert had come no closer to obtaining any experience in his desired field.

He was lucky to have his shitty job at the diner across the road, or he’d have no hope of paying his bills at all.

It was mind numblingly dull work, cleaning dishes day after day after day (he had been demoted after an incident with a particularly rude customer who had threatened a lawsuit due to the mild facial burns they’d received. If they hadn’t wanted hot coffee thrown in their face, they shouldn’t have spat at the waiter who was only doing his job, Bert defended). As he was no longer allowed on the shop floor, the only natural light Bert received during the day was from his excursions outside for quick cigarette breaks, the rest of his time spent looking at a bowl of soapy and foul looking dishes.

Bert sat back in his chair, staring at the offending mail on his kitchen table. He didn’t think he could take another rejection, not this soon after the last one anyway. There was barely any point sending these applications to begin with, and Bert had known that when he sent this one, but he had still hoped and tried. But the voice of ambition in Bert’s head had long since been shut up.

The diner he worked for had been rather successful over the holiday season, but instead of paying their workers more, rumour was that the manager was purchasing an automatic dishwasher amongst other appliances. Bert wasn’t sure how to feel about that, because on one hand having his hours cut would be a God send, but on the other, fewer hours meant less pay. He had already put in several applications at other restaurants.

He stood and picked up the unopened letter, moving out of the tiny kitchen to throw it away. He knew what was in there, there was no point facing more soul crushing disappointment than was needed, more proof that he wasn’t good enough and shouldn’t have tried to begin with. He made his way to the door, grabbing his coat and a ‘hefty’ fifteen dollars off his bed before heading out.

The monotony of his days at work were matched by the loneliness of his nights. Having moved out of his parents house two years ago with the cocky assurance that by ‘this time next year’ he’d be making twice what his parents made combined, he now felt unable to go back to them in any way, to ever have to show them what a failure their son really was. Had he not had a very kind and understanding friend to act as a guarantor (and to pay the first three months of rent), Bert would still be looking for work from odd couches and empty shop doors. It was impossible to get a permanent job without a permanent address.

As his entire salary went on paying bills and making monthly repayments to the friend who got him started, the chance of a social life was practically zero. The only time he ever left his dingy apartment when it wasn’t for work or the occasional sparse food shop was to go see a few friends at the local bar. Jeph Howard, the friend who had helped him find a home, insisted that part of his repayment was coming out to see them. Though this meant Jeph’s overall loan was probably not going to be paid back, he at least got to see his friend, and got him out of that damp apartment once in a while. Bert was always very conscious about paying him back, and Jeph had a room mate- he didn’t need the money as much as Bert needed the company.

Bert opened the bar door and was greeted by the warm atmosphere and scent of beer soaked wood. His party was always easy to spot, over in the far left corner, talking and laughing louder than anyone else in the place. There was more of them tonight.

A wave of terror washed over Bert as he stood in the doorway, as it always did. He wasn’t here as often as the rest of them, he clearly wasn’t as close to them as they were to each other. What if they decided that they only wanted the closest few tonight? What if they’d changed their minds and actually didn’t want the scruffy looking guy any where near them? Had they seen him already, is that why they were laughing? And if not, would he kill the atmosphere by walking over? Did they all hate him for wasting money that he owed to Jeph on alcohol??

It was always terrifying entering the bar. He should just turn around and go back, they probably wouldn’t notice. They had cameras today anyway, it would be weird to try to get in the pictures. He shouldn’t have come, he should’ve picked up an extra shift and paid his rent early, then he could afford to pay Jeph this month too.

He shouldn’t be here.

Bert turned to leave as he caught Jeph’s eye, who instantly smiled and stood, making his way towards Bert.

"You came!" Jeph smiled as he approached his shorter friend (who was still looming near the door, debating whether or not he could run out and not offend anyone.)

Too late. "Greta’s shift ends at ten, then Tony’s working for the last few hours." Jeph explained, clapping Bert’s shoulder and directing him towards the table at the back. "Now, Tony cards people, so if you wanna keep drinking after ten I can run up and grab them, no biggie."

Bert nodded his response, keeping his eyes on the ground so nobody could accuse him of staring at them. He sat by the wall with Jeph, who took the seat next to him. Everybody continued laughing and talking- there was no sudden silence or whispered voices, there was probably no one even looking at him.

Bert was determined to have a good time tonight.

The dark haired man sat on the opposite side of the table to Bert drained his drink, then replaced the empty glass on the table and smiled crookedly at Bert. ‘Hi,’ he said, extending a tattooed hand towards Bert, "I’m Will, I don’t think we’ve met before…"

Bert cleared his throat- no stuttering today, no thank you- and took Will’s hand, "Bert." he nodded, "you’re right, about the non meeting- because we, you know, haven’t. Met, I mean. Before, right now…"

The worst things came out of his mouth under pressure.

Thankfully, Will just laughed at Bert’s ridiculous response, leaning back in his chair as the previously empty seat next to him was filled.

"Bert, dude! Long time no see, how’ve you been?!" the slightly intoxicated seat filler said, leaning across the table to put his hand on Bert’s upper arm, an awkward form of physical contact to show they were on good terms but didn’t have enough room to hug.

And that was him. There sat, clutching his arm, the bane of Bert’s existence. The single person Bert could not tolerate being around without feeling sick to his stomach, the man that made Bert jolt at the sight of anyone with bleached hair because it-might-be-him-and-that-means-trouble, who continuously manages to invade every one of Bert’s thoughts and is the reason for a good portion of the marks littering Bert’s arms and thighs. This man, Quinn Allman, had been Bert’s friend four years ago, and his ‘friend’ for roughly three and a half years. The man was an outright life ruiner.

He was kind, stunningly good looking, modest and the sweetest person to ever walk the planet. Bert was disgustingly and pathetically in love with him.

"When was the last time, you were even here? God it must’ve been ages I don’t even, like remember it? Wow oh man you, you gotta come take a picture with me right okay? So what- what’re you doing now, how’ve you been? What’re you drinking, I’ll go buy, but then we gotta get that picture okay- Jeph, trade, I’m taking your seat hold up- okay I’ll get your drink of- no wait, what are you having again?"

Though Quinn managed to not slur the majority of his words, his lack of conversational skills gave away how much he had actually drunk.

When Quinn’s monologue paused, Bert found the taller man staring down at him (with stupid, perfect, round eyes that were still perfect even when they were unfocused and that was not fair). Clearly waiting for a response.

All thoughts evacuated Bert’s mind. What did he even drink? When did he last drink? What did people even order these days? "Uh." he managed to respond intelligently, "I… I guess I’ll have what you’re having?" Decision made, hopefully Quinn had good taste.

"Okay so, right so two more beers then, that’s good, I like your tastebuds." Quinn said, invading Bert’s personal space and putting his index finger on Bert’s nose (or, at least, trying to, and instead nearly poking Bert in the eye.) "Okay so, beer is on its way! Let me just… Squeeze by here…" Quinn’s side of the conversation continued as he made his way to the bar. Bert doubted he was expected to participate in it anyway.

"Hey Quinn, if you’re paying, d’you wanna get me one of those?" Will shouted to the somehow upright man at the bar. He received Quinn’s middle finger as a response.

Will grumbled down to his empty glass, standing up, "Barely here thirty seconds and you got people buying you drinks." Will said to Bert, laughing. Laughing meant he wasn’t gonna start yelling, right? "I dunno what you’ve got, but I want some of that- Quinn never shares."

That wasn’t fair. Bert barely heard Will’s ‘see you later’ as he was focusing on not vomiting his pathetic dinner up all over the table. ‘Quinn never shares.’ As though Bert was special in some way, as if Quinn held him so highly that he would do for Bert what he would do for no one else. Bert couldn’t help thinking like this, or the swooping pride that was battling the sickness, but every time he let it happen it made falling back to realisation that much more painful. And he tried so hard to stop, he really did.

He shouldn’t have come here.

But he was _going_ to have a good time.

Quinn sat down heavily in the vacated chair next to Bert, gracelessly dropping the glasses of alcohol onto the table and consequently spilling a good portion of both of them.

Quinn slung his arm around Bert’s shoulder, the third genuinely cruel and unfair thing to happen that night, and continued blabbering about how this drink was ‘on him’ and not to 'not even worry' about paying him back, even if Bert wanted more, "I can get that, it’s all good, I got paid today, I got this. You’re my buddy, and I’ve missed you," thought Bert had to swear not to tell the others that Quinn was paying, despite the fact that everyone in the room could quite easily hear him.

Quinn turned towards Bert eventually, arm still loosely over his shoulders. "So, Berticus, tell me everything that’s new with you."

"Everything?" Distinct lack of voice wavering, good job so far McCracken, "It’s not like it’s been years, dude."

"But, not but, it’s been like, time though?" Quinn waved his free hand is slow circles, an indication of time passing, "and, new stuff happens, like, by the second, doesn’t it? So, so like, there’s a bunch of things that I don’t know, like, I don’t know them and I should? We’re bros, you know? And, I dunno, is that, can that still be a thing if, if like, bros have to know like, everything, you know? So, so if I don’t know… Yeah." Quinn faced Bert again, clearly proud of his explanation.

Bert laughed, taking a drink from his partially empty glass. "I guess I know what you mean," he answered, ignoring the blaring neon ‘SECRET BROTHER INCEST DESIRES’ sign glowing in his head, "I dunno, I don’t do much aside from work…"

"Right! The writing! Yeah, dude your writing's like, the work of Gods and stuff, it's like, they beam all this awesome into your head, you know?" Quinn’s arm left Bert’s shoulder as he started talking with his hands, fully animated, not looking at Bert but instead quite content on detailing to the table the divine acts that lead Bert being able to write. "It's just, wow it's so cool, I’m jealous you get, coz like, you can like _live_ off what you love, you know? And moonlight as a singer! Aaaw that’d be sweet…"

"No, Quinn, I’m still working at the diner." Bert interjected.

"No you’re not, I go there like, at times. You’re not ever there, so like…?"

"Yeah, I…" Bert took a drink from his glass again, "I was demoted to the kitchens. Apparently customers like their drinks to stay in their cups rather than all over their faces."

Quinn laughed excessively loud, so most likely didn’t understand the reference. When he calmed down, he asked, "But what about the, the writing and stuff? That’s still happening right?"

"There’s not a lot of work out there at the moment." Bert finished his drink. "But I’m still progressing, writing some new things, yeah."

That wasn’t strictly true, but he hadn’t seen Quinn in over a month, starting a conversation explaining how he wasn’t a good enough writer to get work anywhere wasn’t the best plan. Quinn had always been the person who would get excited if Bert wrote something new, eager to see what his friend had created this time. He always critiqued as thoroughly as he could, explaining in excited detail which parts he liked best, how incredible it was to him, how each twist and turn was completely out of the blue and pointing out parts which might not be needed or may make it confusing to the ‘common reader.’ He didn’t need to know how hard inspiration was to find right now, how all the voices in Bert’s head seemed to have been killed off, crushed by the enormous entity of rejection. Bert could barely write two lines of lyrics right now, which he had always found so easy before, words pouring out of him as soon as he homed in on the particular emotion, sometimes too many ideas, too much he could commit to paper.

Being unable to write made him feel sick, not just because it was more proof that he was useless. It was as if something huge was missing from his very being, all his creativity seemed to have vanished and it felt like a physical being was missing from Bert’s life, something tangible, something that he had always taken for granted.

But Quinn didn’t need to know any of that.

"That’s great, though, like I just, I can’t think of the last time I read any Bert-works, you know? I’m like, yeah. You gotta let me read them, you will right? I can’t wait to read them, oh man it’ll be so awesome, did you finish that, that book thingy? Any more, like, lyrics or whatever? They were my favourite…"

Bert smiled, facing the table rather than Quinn and scrunching the fifteen dollars in his hand, working up the courage to go to the bar. "No new lyrics just yet. There’s not so much time as before, and I’ve still got-"

"Why’re you so quiet?"

Bert looked up from the table, slightly confused but exaggerating the expression for Quinn’s benefit. "Uh, not being funny but you kinda talk, like, non stop when you’ve been drinking."

"No, no," Quinn flapped his hands in Bert’s direction, "I know that, that’s not, that wasn’t what I meant though? I mean like, you’re so, so like quieter than you always were, you know? Coz like, before you’d be all, loud and ‘I am Bert, I am great, bow to me’ and stuff? But like now it’s, it’s like Bert’s not even there or whatever. It’s like now you’re all…"

Quinn made some gestures with his hands and strange facial expressions that made little sense and definitely did not describe a quiet Bert at all, but that wasn’t the point. Was he really that different? When had he even changed? Sure, it was just because he was tired, but for his friends to be noticing it too, especially this particular friend… it hit home, hard. Bert stood hastily, mumbling something about being tired from work and how he was going to get another drink, making his way to the bar.

Quinn was still in college, his part time work really was only part time and his parents helped him the whole way. He’d be drained too if he was terrible at the thing he loved and over worked in a job he hated.

Bert found himself stood next to Jeph at the packed bar, who was talking to a short guy Bert didn’t recognise. Their drinks arrived and the shorted man returned to the table as Jeph turned to Bert, putting his arm around Bert’s shoulders in a way that mimicked Quinn’s actions moments earlier. "You’re really not having a good time, are you?"

That wasn’t okay, Bert had decided he was going to have a good night tonight. "No, I’m having fun. I mean, I only just got here, so no wonder I’ve not spoken to everyone yet…" Quinn’s words resonated in Bert’s mind, and he envisaged how the ‘old’ Bert would act, walking into the bar before anyone else, demanding all attention be on him before downing several drinks and launching himself into every conversation. That Bert wouldn’t hide away next to the wall, he wouldn’t say stupid things around strangers (at least not accidentally) or panic before he even got to them.

As soon as his debts were paid off, he was going on vacation.

Jeph smiled at him sympathetically, a terrible look on anyone, but especially bad on someone as genuine as Jeph. Even through all the trouble Jeph had helped him through in the past two years, this was the first time Bert had even seen that look on Jeph’s face. "You know, you can always talk to me if something’s up, like, to yell at or… I dunno, just, I’m… here for you, or something."

Bert placed his order for two beers with the barmaid before answering Jeph, perhaps more sharply than he had intended. "Why would I need to talk?" Jeph had seen him at his lowest, he knew when things weren’t right. He always knew.

"I’m not saying you do, just… You look pretty down tonight, it was just a suggestion…"

"I’m fine." Bert’s drinks arrived and he paid the barmaid, getting a lot less change than he had hoped for. "I’m just pretty beat from work, don’t worry." He pushed one of the glasses towards Jeph, "Thank you, though."

They made their way back to the table, Bert ignoring Jeph’s protests at the drink and wary looks at the back of Bert’s head. He left the second glass in front of Quinn, who had moved to talk excitedly to a girl Bert vaguely recognised, before returning to his previous seat by the wall. He tried not to feel too down trodden that Quinn was no longer talking to him, instead attempting to join in with Jeph and Will’s conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had just passed 2am and the party had been kicked out of the bar for closing hours, now lingering in a broad alley across the street, half of the people still drinking and everyone laughing. Bert had to admit, he was having a pretty good time.

"He’s totally going to fucking do it," Jeph slurred, indicating another drunken man attempting to scale a drain. "Pete, dude, that things gonna collapse, its not worth it."

"He’s gonna make it, quiet Jeph. Go Pete! Come on dude!!"

Bert took a couple of steps back, watching with awe and amusement as a drunken man attempted to climb the outside of a building as his friends cheered him on, losing some clothing in the process. It shouldn’t have been as funny as it was.

Another bright flash went off to his right. Over the course of the evening he had learnt that these periodic flashes were caused by Quinn’s new Polaroid camera.

As Jeph and a few of the more responsible people moved to pull the intoxicated acrobat from his stage, Bert turned away and was met with Quinn attempting to take a picture of himself with one of the girls in the group.

He wasn’t managing very well. "Quinn, c’mere, lemme take it." Bert moved forward and abstracted the Polaroid from Quinn’s hands, taking a couple of photos so they could each get copies before returning the camera and photographs to Quinn.

"Now, no-no escaping now McCrackalackalin, I said, no coz I already said, I told you earlier, we need some photos so get over, c’mere, get yourself over here." Quinn pushed the camera towards the girl. "Alicia, princess, lovely, can, can you snap some snappys for us, can like, will, you’ll take some, right?"

The girl took the camera with an ‘abso-fucking-lutely’ as Bert was pulled into a one armed hug from Quinn. The taller man seemed unable to keep the same position for more than one photo, moving about and posing, dragging Bert along for the best part. The photos would be terrible, Bert couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot, but it was fun to be pushed and pulled and mauled. Quinn’s proximity set all of Bert’s senses alight, the warmth of his body infecting Bert’s cold sides and shooting right through him. Quinn’s voice, though not particularly low pitched, seemed to rumble in his chest as Bert was pressed against him, making his stomach curl up in knots of either nerves or desire (probably both) and Quinn’s scent made Bert’s head swim- he wanted to cover himself in it and never breathe regular air again.

It wasn’t just Quinn’s physical attributes that left Bert speechless though- his carefree, happy attitude were like a hot iron melting away the dirty, grubby troubles Bert had felt piling up. He felt alive, he felt that all his worrying about rejection had been trivial. He was good at what he did, and these things just took time. Time which he would gladly waste with Quinn, getting stupid photographs taken or just sitting, doing nothing, simply being close enough to Quinn that his radiant perfection could infect Bert enough to keep him feeling so alive.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this.

"Here," Quinn pushed a photograph into Bert’s palm, "this ones, this ones for you. Now, now you gotta remember me, us, see? And come back, come out with us, and, and don’t let the man get you down, right?!"

Bert slipped the photograph into his hoodie pocket, making stupid cheering woots and high fiving with Quinn like they were sixteen again. The picture was one that Bert hadn’t been ready for, it was mostly his back facing the camera and not much of him was actually in it. Quinn had been ready though, his full smile directed at the camera as he pulled on Bert’s arm. He probably hadn’t realised how beautiful he looked in that picture when he gave it away.

It was the most perfect thing Bert had ever been given.


	2. Ground Level

Bert’s Saturday shift started at midday, so the morning after his trip to the bar he could sleep in and nurse his hangover, small as it was on this particular occasion.

His apartment wasn’t amazing by anyone’s standards- it was on the third floor, the front door leading into a tiny hall that merged into an open plan kitchen-come-living area. The bedroom and bathroom were both off to the right, bedroom first as you entered the tiny place. There were remnants of some pretty severe water damage left by the people who lived there before him, and the place always smelt damp. The air conditioning did not work, full stop, and in winter the heaters would make very little difference. But it was a place to live, the kitchen had a small table he could write at, and the bed wasn’t huge- but it was a damn sight better than the pavement. Most importantly, it was his.

Bert usually didn’t get his mail until he arrived home after his shift, so he usually didn’t have to face the crushing shame of rejection all day. Today, there were only two pieces of mail, one was the electricity bill and the other was a flier from a new pizza place down the road. Maybe today wouldn’t be so awful after all.

As his daily routine left him generally unable to sleep past seven thirty, Bert liked to spend his Saturday mornings writing resumes or trying to finish something he’d already started writing. Having exhausted all his resources for job vacancies, he decided to write something new, lack of inspiration be damned.

He pulled the photograph from the night before out of his pocket, smoothing the creases out with his fingers and lying it flat on the table in front of him. Quinn had always been good motivation for writing, whether it was the desire to see his smile when he was handed something new (‘Quinn’ll like this, I better finish it before he gets here.’), or whether the overbearing emotion Bert harboured for the taller man provided him with enough content to write for at least a year. Maybe that’s all he needed- he had always been a sociable creature, this solitude cant be good for him. He was going to call Jeph this week, at least once- there’s plenty of things they could do that didn’t cost anything.

Bert stared down at the blank page of the notebook he always kept on him and thought back over the events of the night before. A while back it had got to the point where he couldn’t think of Quinn for motivation at all, it was just too painful. Straight guys don’t just randomly flip sexuality because their friend confesses undying love for them any more than gay guys do if a female friend confesses. It isn’t a choice. But by now, rejection was a regular guest in Bert's life, he wasn’t expecting much. He was content with his imagination.

He wrote that down and then stared at it for a while. The longer he looked, the less impact it seemed to have. He drew a simple line through what he had written.

Time to try again.

So, starting point- Quinn.

Just thinking his name made Bert’s stomach flip. He had tried on several occasions to find words to describe Quinn, but nothing really hit the mark. He would move through adjectives so quickly, knowing as soon as he brushed across them that they were wrong- this one wasn’t accurate enough, and while that one had the intensity, it was too positive, and so on. He had only even managed to settle on the word ‘perfect’, which he continuously came back to. Only having one word had evident problems though- a sentence on Quinn: ‘A perfect perfect with perfect everything.’ It was worse than a five year old’s work.

So just attempting to describe him was out. Bert had had a modest amount of success off how Quinn made him feel, but it was tiring by now to have to experience every agonising emotion time after time. In the beginning when his feelings had been moderately new and he still held hope of attracting his friend's attention, focusing on every aspect of each emotion was exhilarating and validated what he felt. Committing it to paper did that too, as well as providing the thrill of showing what he’d written to Quinn. It was like a code, his own private way of exposing his feelings without Quinn even noticing.

But, the irony of the paradox- Quinn didn’t even notice. After being shown several of Bert’s pieces, he still had no idea it was about him. That had been fine at first, a safe way for Bert to hide, but several months later he’s started to want more. He still didn’t have the courage to say it outright, but even with what he considered to be more obvious stories or poems, Quinn had remained clueless. It was frustrationg, and had started to feel like rejection, which, though he was used to it by now, had been one of the worst things he had ever experienced at the time.

It wasn’t fair.

Quinn wasn’t doing anything wrong, he was just being himself (his perfect self, Bert thought bitterly, scratching viciously through yet another line he wasn’t happy with), just enjoying his friend's talent before carrying on with his ordinary routine. He could go out and look at girls and keep his friends separate, could keep their faces out of his head for the majority of the time and be able to think about other people when touching himself. They all could, everyone Bert knew. They could carry on with no problem and it simply wasn’t fair.

At 11.45am, Bert threw his notebook across the room and stomped out of the apartment for work.

He had managed to write one line he was happy with in an entire morning.

_‘I love you, even though it isn’t fair.’_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert barely made it through his shift. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, before he’d even taken his first break. Dirty dishes didn’t make for great company.

He threw his keys onto the kitchen table and fell heavily into the chair he had been sitting in earlier. He had some left over food in his fridge, but no drive to get up and wait the whole three minutes it’d take to warm it in the microwave. He worked on alternating Sundays, and tomorrow was one of his days off.

Bert leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to picture a waterfall. All he ever seemed to think about was work, it was completely taking over his life, that wouldn’t be so bad if it was something he enjoyed, but with the constant cycle of ‘I have to get up at this time for work tomorrow’ and ‘only so many hours before my shift is over’, it was no wonder he had no inspiration to write anymore.

  
He hummed the guitar riff of ‘Beat It’ to himself. Before he’d moved out of his parents’ house he’d sing all the time, often things he’d written. His parents, especially his father, had been extremely supportive of his musical talent, providing him with every opportunity to build on his skills, driving ridiculous distances on occasion so he could enter competitions. But the walls of his apartment were thin- he got yelled at from all sides if he sang here.

He was woken up on Sunday morning with a harsh blow to the head, the kitchen chair he had apparently fallen asleep in finally tipping over, throwing him onto the floor. When he stood, he had terrible neck cramp and his mouth was bone dry. He made coffee, smoked a cigarette and finally made his way to bed.

Anyone in their right mind would love a day off, but Bert didn’t know what to do with his time. Though his monotonous routine stunted his artistic skill, it at least gave him something simple to fill his mind with, letting him focus on something that wasn’t how much of a failure he had become. He would sit around on his Sundays off and waste the day, get nothing done and then blame the lack of housework on having no time to do it. Just being alone, wasting his time.

He wouldn’t mind wasting his time with Quinn.

He needed to call Jeph at some point.

There was probably a good daytime movie on SyFy.

He didn’t even wake again until three thirty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Having forgotten to eat the night before, Bert stuffed his face with the leftovers, some ice cream clearly past its sell by date, and half a bag of potato chips. In hindsight, he probably should have saved the leftovers for a meal tonight, but he probably had a tin of beans lodged somewhere. However, as the next thing to do on his packed itinerary for the day was lying on his back staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t really spare the time to check his sparse cupboards.

Staring at the ceiling soon merged with the next thing on his list, further developing his imaginary relationship with Quinn (they’d been fighting, but had as of right now made up and were to enjoy a week long fuck-athon to make up lost time). Even if he liked girls in reality, in Bert’s head Quinn was a strict Bert-sexual.

Bert’s fantasies were cut short by the sudden urge to puke- clearly ice cream that far past its sell by date was not ‘still good’. On returning from the bathroom, Bert found ('found' as in slipped on gracefully) his ideas notebook. He picked it up and took it back to his room, curled up in his blankets and found his favourite pen stuck between the headboard and mattress.

He couldn’t write, not right now, and it was something he couldn’t force- but if something came to him as he was flicking through, it was good to have his pen handy.

He flipped from pages covered in written notes to pages mainly consisting of messy, angry scribbles, the odd, line jumping out here and there. It was horrible to see how far he had regressed. It wasn’t just a matter of being unable to write anymore, whenever he did it felt clunky, mismatched, or it was about stupid, unimportant things.

He hated seeing how poorly he wrote now.

His writing skills weren’t all that was wrong, either. What he wrote was like a mirror to his life, and what was on the page before him showed an empty, corporate shell, with no personality except for one pathetic glimmer of unrequited love. It reflected the exact thing Bert had never wanted to become.

He felt so lost. His life had no direction, no purpose, and, self-pitying as it sounded, if he was gone people probably wouldn’t actually notice for a long time. When they did, they’d probably be mad at him- Jeph would definitely get angry- but overall it was like wiping a dirty smudge off a pane of glass. Simple.

His throat burned, eyes itched and skin felt too tight, particularly around his ears and hands. He tried to think of his positive features like he’d been told to, but he was coming up short and that was certainly worsening the situation. Who even got wound up about pathetic shit like this? He ran his hands through his hair, scraping his nails across his scalp, and tried to breath normally. How had he become everything he hated?

He had never struggled like this before, he had always been strong in the face of any trouble, come sickness or death, even just terrible school results- fine, he’d get upset, but he’d pick himself up again, learn from it, grow. This was doing nothing. He was breaking. He was falling to pieces and there wasn’t even anything _wrong_. It was stupid.

He bit down on his wrist, hard. This new, pitiable, squirming mess he had become was afraid of raised voices, it seemed, and certainly did not want a repeat of Jeph yelling at him. He was a gentle man, it was terrifying to see his get so uncharacteristically angry. Bert had lost control a few times in the past, and when the worst bout had landed him in hospital for the night, Jeph had completely gone to town on him. He’d had Bert on suicide-watch for about two months.

All of Bert’s sharp objects were locked in a box in the bathroom, with locks that, hopefully, shaking, panicky hands couldn’t open. He didn’t go to the box like he wanted, he stayed where he was and scraped his nails over his back and shoulder as hard as he could with his right hand, the hand he was not savagely biting. He scratched once, twice, three times, four, all in the same place, before pulling his hand back over his shoulder and slamming it into his ankle.

Bites and scratches were no comparison, but at least they faded in a few days.

He pulled his wrist from his clenched jaw, ignoring the tears that had started to run down his face. His throat hurt, he wanted to rip it out, pull his ears off, tear his stomach open. His un-chewed fist found his stomach, causing him to double over, gasping for breath.

A failed writer that couldn’t even keep a promise to a friend that had given him everything.

He dug his nails in behind his ears, turned towards his pillow and screamed.

He would call Jeph later, he couldn’t face it right now. When he’d calmed down a bit, he curled up under his covers again, sobbing quietly- he wasn’t going to work tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert woke up at his usual time of seven thirty the next morning, but stayed tucked up in his nest of bed sheets rather than putting on his work uniform. His eyes and throat ached- he hated crying.

He stayed in bed until ten thirty, ignoring the calls he got from work. When they stopped, he gathered up his blankets nest and transported it to his sofa, settling down to watch cartoons for the rest of the day. The sofa backed onto the kitchen- if he lent back far enough, he could reach the cupboard with the cheetos.

Jeph would be at work until four thirty, and though he had told Bert that he could call at any time, it wasn’t urgent and could wait until Jeph was less busy.

Bert practically leapt out of his skin when his landline started ringing just after midday.

The number wasn’t work.

He answered, cautiously, "…Hello?"

"Bert?" Bert’s heart sunk to his stomach. The last person he wanted to talk to right now- it was worse than a call from work.

"Quinn, hi, how’s it going?"

"Ah, good, you know. Are you busy? Jeph said you’d be at work, but I called there and they said you hadn’t showed up…"

"Uh, yeah," Bert sniffed and hacked loudly down the phone, "I’m sick right now."

"Not hungover, I hope!" That stupidly angelic laughter. It cut up Bert’s insides and made him unbelievably happy at the same time. "Yeah, you don’t sound too good… Want me to come over? I could bring you something…"

Bert panicked. He wasn’t sick, Quinn would know he was a giant skiving faker, and would see him in pyjamas feeling sorry for himself and being an idiot about everything. A visit wasn’t even an option. "Ah, no I, think it might be contagious… What did you need?"

Quinn let out a quietly disappointed ‘oh’ before continuing brightly, "Ah, not a _thing_ so much as, well, it sounds really stupid," he cleared his throat, "but… It was great seeing you the other day, you know? You really don’t come out enough, and I know that’s not your fault but, it sucks, you know?"

For something that ‘sucked’, it was making Bert smile an awful lot. "Yeah," he replied, "I am sorry about that, you know. I had a great time last night." Bert resisted the urge to play with the ends of his hair, and tried to ignore how clichéd that line was, how it definitely seemed like a morning-after-the-night-before response. Oh, if only.

He would do bad things to that man. Dirty,  _dirty_ things...

"Yeah, me too!" Quinn laughed again, "shame I cant remember most of you being there, we’ll have to do it again sometime when I’m sober!"

This was such a pointless conversation.

It was a perfect conversation.

"I mean, slurring about stupid stuff is great and all, I’m sure you must’ve had a great time deciphering me…" He laughed, "But then.. Well, then we cant like… Talk, and stuff… About… Important things... I don’t know."

About what?

"Yeah, I know." Bert swallowed, ignoring the niggling voice at the back of his mind saying the worst (or best) had happened and that Quinn had found out how he felt. "I was gonna call Jeph later, you free tonight?"

Quinn made an incoherent grumbling noise down the phone. "Fuck, I can’t tonight, we have a guest lecturer coming in who doesn’t finish till five, then I have an interview like half an hour later, which is ridiculous, I am gonna be so late-" Quinn carried on explaining his hectic schedule at a mile a minute. Just hearing his voice made Bert feel more at ease, like his relapse last night had been nothing, it could easily be handled.

Maybe this is what he’s been missing.

"-but that’s not for like another week, I can totally make that. But anyway," Quinn was quiet for a moment, "… I really wanted to see you again, you know… Talk and stuff…"

Bert scowled at his muted TV set.

This wasn’t a pointless call, was it?

"Well," he swallowed again, glancing at the calendar on his fridge, "I’m free Friday night..?"

What are you hiding, Quinn?

"Awesome!" His voice had regained the light, excited quality it had had before, "That’s great, you gotta get there early though, okay?"

What aren’t you telling me?

"Absolutely." Bert smiled, forgetting Quinn couldn’t see him, "… Are you sure you don’t wanna talk now? I have time…"

"Ah, no," Quinn rushed, "maybe later, when you’re less contagious and stuff. Hey, you really shouldn’t go out tonight if you’re feeling bad, you know." Bert slapped a hand to his forehead, cursing his stupidity for blowing his own cover. "But… Yeah, we’ll talk in person, bye!" The line went dead.

That boy confused the hell out of him.

_Share with me, Quinn._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert didn’t realise how much he needed to know what was on Quinn’s mind until the conversation ended. He couldn’t sit still, pacing around his apartment, rifling through possibilities. He wished he could see Quinn, to look at him and know, to pull it from his perfect mouth, tear open his chest and crush every morsel of his body into his own skin, know every thought, every feeling, every worry. He wanted to see it all, feel it, taste it, be included in it.

He hoped to God Quinn hadn’t found out about him.

He grabbed the photo from last night off his night stand, flopping down into the blankets pile and staring at it, scowling. _You are so beautiful_ he thought to himself, running the tip of his finger over the printed Quinn’s smile. _Tell me what you’re thinking._

He got up again and retrieved his favourite pen from the bathroom where he’d kicked it this morning, scrawling a line down on the back of the photograph.

He stared at it. It didn’t get worse as he re-read it. Bert grinned, kissing the picture, (what, its not like anyone _saw_ ) and put it back on his night stand.

He called Jeph.

He felt alive.

"Quinn tells me you’re at deaths door and to not let you come out tonight." was Jeph’s immediate response as he answered the phone, cutting whatever Bert had been going to say short. What was wrong with the classic ‘hello’? "And I think he bought you grapes, he wanted to drop something off here for you… Why do sick people like grapes so much…"

"I’m not sick." Bert cut in, "You busy later?"

"I thought not." Jeph’s voice grew distant for a moment as he replied something incoherent to a male voice in the background. He returned with a laugh, "Nah, I’m free tonight. Bar?"

"Sounds good, see you later."

"Be there at seven, Bert. Strange women chat me up when I’m there alone. Sometimes dudes."

Bert snorted. Jeph was the most easy going man he knew, which had caused problems for him in the past. Bert had witnessed a man hitting on Jeph before on two occasions. The first time, Jeph hadn’t realised the man was gay, ("I thought he was just being nice!"). He’d had to be rescued before he was whisked off to the man’s apartment. The second included a lot of blinking and ‘uh’ on Jeph’s part. He had no idea how to respond to the stranger hitting on him, it had been hilarious to watch. "Sure, see you at seven."

"Later dude." The line went dead again.

Having not showered since Thursday morning, Bert thought that might be the best thing to do next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert walked into the bar just after 7.30pm to find Jeph at the bar, holding his cell phone a little too close to a disgruntled looking barmaid’s face and talking about something quite rapidly.

She turned away before Bert reached Jeph though. Bert was ready to fire some detailed excuse as to why he was late (in reality, he’d been singing in the shower and wanted to get through every song from ‘The Fine Art of Original Sin’ whilst naked), when he caught sight of Jeph’s cell screen. It was a picture of one of the girls from Friday night.

"Any reason you’re showing pictures of girls to strangers?"

"You’re late." Jeph replied, closing his phone and slipping it into his pocket, "I told you strange women hit on me..." The barmaid looked over, disgusted. "Not that you’re strange, miss… Oh dear." Bert didn’t even bother to hide his snickers as the barmaid walked away, pretending like she hadn’t heard him. "I told her Jamia was my girlfriend, sure fire way of letting someone down lightly."

"Until they hear you insult them, of course."

"… Yeah… My drinks are gonna be spat in aren’t they?"

"Or thrown over you."

Jeph scowled at the floor behind the bar, chewing his lip. He’d redone his hair since Friday, Bert noticed. The orange was now even more vibrant. "I didn’t think it was _that_ bad…"

"It wasn’t, but you know women…" Bert shivered over enthusiastically and pulled a horrified face, " _ugh._ "

Jeph laughed at that, barmaid forgotten. He slapped Bert on the back, trying to get the attention of a different member of the serving staff. "What’re you drinking?"

"Nothing." Jeph looked at him with a comically shocked face. "Jeph, I have no money-"

"I got these."

"No, you already got me a fucking _house_ ," Bert dug around in his pockets for his cigarettes. If he had left them in his apartment he would scream. "I cant take anything else from you, like, ever."

"I would hardly call that hovel you live in a house." Jeph contemplated, "And you’ve nearly paid everything back. I’m doing something nice, just accept the offer gracefully Bert."

Bert grudgingly accepted, thankfully finding his cigarettes and offering one to Jeph. He shouldn’t have missed work today, he could’ve used that wage on more cigarettes. There was only three left. In his last pack. Not good.

As the two friends caught up one on one, Bert couldn’t help the events of earlier in the day from curling around the edges of his mind. Friday was much too far away, the wait to find out what Quinn had been hinting at was much too long. He was certain it would kill him.

"Hey, Jeph," Bert asked as their third round of drinks arrived (despite Bert’s protests), "You talk to Quinn a lot, right?"

"I guess." he replied, drinking. "Why?"

"Has he…" Bert thought for a moment. He hadn’t been able to say anything over the phone to one of his best friends, maybe Bert shouldn’t say anything at all?

"Mentioned you?" Jeph replied. "Don’t get mad, but, yeah, a lot. I’m the big bad guy for not forcing you out of your apartment, it seems. Not like he has legs of his own, or like he has your address _and_ cell number, oh _no_ , its _my_ job…"

Bert scratched at his collar bone and vainly hoped he felt warmer because the bar had miraculously heated up by 15 degrees, not because his blood had rushed to the surface of his skin. Blushing? Way too cliché. "I didn’t, that’s not what I meant… Why would I even care if he-" Bert swallowed, trying to play it cool and not be flattered at the idea of a worried Quinn. "I don’t care what he thinks. Like, specifically."

Jeph looked at him over the top of his glass. It was unnerving and completely unnecessary. "If you say so, Bert.£

Jeph noticed too much.

Jeph had had too many drunk or high conversations with Bert.

Jeph wasn’t fooled by Bert’s pathetic attempts of covering up his emotions.

"… Shut up."

Jeph snickered into his drink, slapping Bert on the shoulder. His right shoulder. He tried his best not to visibly wince (or scream)- that probably wouldn't go down too well. He had purposely worn his largest hoodie here, with the long sleeves that he could pull over his hands. His wrist was covered in clearly defined red marks from his teeth, it was disgusting. He hadn’t had the courage to inspect his shoulder.

So much for fading.

"It’s not easy being Bert, huh?"

Bert laughed. _More than you’d care to know._  "Hey, you try being queer for your best friend."

"Bert, I’m touched."

"Fine, _one of_ your best friends."

Jeph laughed and hit Bert’s shoulder again. _Fuck_. "Much as I sympathise, I think I’d rather pass, thanks."

Bert crossed his arms on the bar and lay his head down, looking vaguely in Jeph’s direction. He was so grateful to Jeph for being cool about his (now confirmed) secret. He was so grateful to Jeph for just about everything he did ever.

"You’re such a great friend, Jeph." Bert admitted. Jeph should know these things.

"Not quite as good as Quinn though, eh? Zing…"

Bert kicked Jeph’s stool. "Don’t be a dick."

"Don't provide me with material to make jokes from then, you know I'm a comedic genius." Jeph replied with a straight face, taking a pointed sip of his drink. "So mentioning dicks, and Quinn..."

"Really, you’re _actually_ going to go there, just for the sake of comedy?"

"What? I didn’t say anything about Quinn naked and displayed, what’re you talking about?"

They both went quiet, Jeph’s expression slowly turning more uncomfortable as the silence went on. Bert’s imagination was running away with him. That was an awful thing to mention, they were in public- jacking off could get him arrested.

"… Please stop imagining sleeping with my friends."

"Can’t."

Jeph spun around on his barstool, laughing with his eyes closed, nose wrinkled. Funny, but slightly perturbing- best kind of humour.

"Sorry," he said, leaning his elbows back on the bar. "I know its more important to you than that."

Bert closed his eyes, pornographic scenes still lurking behind his lids. "Its horrible, don’t ever fall in love."

"Love? Really?"

Bert thought about it. He wished he could say ‘no’, that he was just over exaggerating, that he didn’t feel sick when he thought of his so called ‘friend’. He wished it was purely physical, just a fantasy that got out of hand, but it sometimes felt like his entire being was based off Quinn’s. Every single thing about Quinn affected him, and it ripped his heart into a million, broken pieces.

"Oh… That bad, huh?"

"Like you wouldn’t believe." Bert laughed darkly, picking at his fingernails.

"… Sorry, dude." Jeph patted him on his shoulder, lightly this time so it didn’t hurt as much.

"Its not all bad, though." Bert replied, seeing how uncomfortable Jeph had become. And, really, it wasn’t. "I doubt you wanna hear me dribble on about how great he is though…" Bert muttered as his empty was replaced with another beer-plus-whiskey chaser.

They both downed their chasers- fuck convention, chasers go first here- before Jeph said, "No, go on." Bert looked at him sceptically from his head-perch on his arms. "It clearly means a lot to you. I said, didn’t I- anything you wanna talk about. Maybe give me a few more of these before you start detailing all your gritty fantasies though." He laughed, tapping his drink.

Bert smiled at him. "Jeph, have I told you that you’re great yet?"

"Yeah, but I never get tired of hearing it."

Bert closed his eyes again and sighed, not caring if he sounded like a virgin maiden thanks to the alcohol swirling through his bloodstream at that moment.. "… He is amazing though."

"How so?"

"Just," Bert waved his hand, trying to think of a way to describe it. "Well, he sucks coz he’s great, and perfect, but its stupid, and I’m stupid and-" He paused. "I don’t know how to explain it."

Jeph smiled into his drink, not looking at Bert. "Well, I can see that," he said. "It's cool, I was just being interested, if you don’t-"

"No, but," Bert sat up slightly. He’d never been able to say any of this to anyone before, it was the only thing he wanted. Nothing else mattered, he had to describe it. "No, there’s gotta be words, just… Bare with me."

He put his head down and stared at the dart board on the far wall. He’d given up on his positive feelings years ago. "Its… Like I’ve been dead for, what, nine hundred years. And I didn’t even realise. But when he’s around I feel… I feel alive again." He started picking his fingernails again, aware that Jeph was watching him. "I know it shouldn’t, I know its stupid, but it all affects me so bad. I could get a degree in Quinnology." Jeph laughed. Good, Bert was becoming self conscious.

He put his hand back down, staring contently at the wall, probably smiling but not bothering enough to notice. "You just… You have no idea, Jeph, how _amazing_ it feels to just, _live_ again…"

He caught Jeph’s eye. Jeph was smiling at him, like a mother would to a child that they were extremely proud of. "Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense." Jeph spun around on is barstool, laying his arm across Bert’s shoulders and putting their foreheads together. "I’m not gonna tell you what to do, but it _is_ always nice to hear you’re wanted…"

Bert snorted (in Jeph’s face, making him recoil slightly) "Yeah, straight guys love being told that other guys they thought were their friends actually wanna fuck ‘em. Good thing you’re not telling me what to do, Jeph, not your best advice."

Jeph smiled knowingly, draining the remainder of his drink. "You clearly know best. Come on, lets get fucked up- and fuck the consequences!"

Bert sat up and drained his drink. "When I get my career sorted, we are going on so many benders. All on me."

"I’m holding you to that."

Bert had stumbled into his apartment at half two in the morning, singing ‘I love rock and roll’ as loud and out of tune as he could with Jeph in tow, who had passed out on Bert’s couch as soon as he reached it. When Bert woke up the next morning his head was splitting and he spent the best part of an hour puking. But however bad he felt, he had missed work the day before, so he left Jeph snoring on his couch and stumbled out to work, still half drunk.


	3. Below Surface

"Bert, how are you not done with those yet?"

Bert looked up from the pan he was scrubbing. His head was still killing him and every time he moved he thought he was going to pass out or throw up. "Just a second, I’m nearly-"

"Bert, there is literally no surface space anywhere, get this shit _moved_."

"I’m on it, just-"

"Bert! Fuck, how are we meant to serve anyone if your lazy ass wont get us clean dishes?!"

"Fuck, they’re done, I just need-"

"Bert, give me that, you clearly don’t know what you’re doing."

"I- Its just-"

"See Bert, this is why you shouldn’t take time off work unannounced, it throws everyone off…"

"Will someone tell Bert to hurry the fuck up with those plates?!"

Bert stepped back from the dirty water. It was all too load, too hectic. He felt sick, he couldn’t breathe.

Someone walked smack into him. "For fuck’s sake, will you watch what you’re doing you dirty faggot?!"

His tongue was too big for his mouth.

He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t breathe.

His head hurt.

Who the fuck was this guy to label him, anyway.

Bert punched his co worker as hard as he could, flooring him.

It took three of the larger male staff to pull him off, biting and thrashing and screaming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert lay on his side on his bed, staring at the wall and running the point of his thumb nail over the outside of his wrist. ‘Last chance’ they’d said, and ‘be grateful’. He should be happy they didn’t fire him, that the man he’d attacked hadn’t pressed charges. It’d taken him long enough to get this job in the first place, and with a bad reference his chances of finding work elsewhere would be absolutely zero.

And yet, he didn’t feel happy about it. He really just, didn’t care. He stayed where he was, letting apathy and lethargy run over and through him. He’d tried to let his mind wonder, tried to focus on his writing, but he had just wound up considering how life was really, _truely_  pointless for about an hour. Everything he did would be pointless, progressing on, becoming the next pointless step. He couldn’t look to the future anymore, all he saw when he tried was a long, dull slog, with nothing but death and disappointment at the end. He wasn’t specifically upset about it. He just felt… Nothing.

The skin on his wrist had started to peel slightly, but he carried on his monotonous task. Maybe he’d make it to the bone.

That’d be cool.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By Friday morning, Bert hadn’t managed to write anything new.

Nothing he’d want shown, anyway.

It had been a real internal struggle, trying to convince himself to get up every morning for work rather than staying in bed or getting wasted, but somehow Bert had made it for all of his shifts. He wasn’t too sure on the details (he had been told, but he hadn’t honestly been paying a lot of attention), but he was pretty sure missing shifts would count as his ‘final straw’.

He had almost completely forgotten about his pre-arranged bar trip with Quinn when it rolled around to Friday night, only remembering when a helpful Jeph called him as a reminder. Bert had been rather high at the time, but still managed to find himself sitting at the bar with Jeph, waiting for Quinn and slowly losing his buzz.

He thought back to the last time he had spoken to his friend, the less than subtle hints he had dropped. Bert never did get around to asking Jeph if he knew anything, if Quinn had said anything to him. His heart rate increased as he sat waiting, attempting to listen to Jeph. He had come to the conclusion that Quinn knew about how Bert felt, and, at least, didn’t hate him for it. Quinn had told him countless times during his intoxicated ramblings last Friday night that he’d ‘missed him’ and how ‘great’ Bert was, treating him like he was important. The last time Bert had seen Quinn before then, he’d received a moody ‘hi’ and little conversation for the entire night. It was plausible that Quinn was trying to make up for the last time, but he wasn’t exactly great at noticing things. He’d probably had no idea how much his bad humour had hurt Bert.

Bert was certain he was going to vomit when he saw Quinn walk in, flanked by two guys Bert may have known, but couldn’t bring himself to look at. He couldn’t look at any of them- he had been eating very poorly this week, he didn’t want to lose what little sustenance he had.

Bert tried to ignore how small the bar suddenly felt, how crowded. He must stick out like a sore thumb, everyone’s eyes drawn to the scruffy little man who was clearly not of age in over sized clothes. They could all see through it, through him, his façade. They could see the marks on his skin, the blood in his veins, the trouble he caused wherever he went. He was an embarrassment and everyone could see it.

He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to be here.

He didn’t want to be seen.

Until his back was thumped. Until he turned to see the brightest, most genuine smile he’d ever seen. Until he laid eyes on the love of his life, who’s eyes were crinkling at the corners, looking honestly thrilled to see him.

Then, he wished he was dead.

"Hey buddy!" Quinn said cheerfully, taking the barstool next to Bert, his acquaintances starting a discussion with Jeph to Bert’s left. "How’s it going?"

"Oh, you know," Bert’s voice sounded small. He cleared his throat, "been better. How was your guest speaker?"

Quinn launched off into one of his monologues, barely pausing for breath and forgetting to explain who half the people he was talking about were. Bert wanted to focus, but honestly, he felt so trapped. He had been switching between pathetic apathy and violent frustration all week, it was exhausting.

… He hadn’t panicked once, though.

He really needed to spend his money on food, rather than pills.

He wanted to be locked inside his apartment, where it was safe. He wanted to tear his skin from his throat, break open his breast bone, stab himself through the eye with his own rib. He wanted to hurt, he wanted to destroy.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

He had no control in this environment and it scared him.

"But enough about that." Right, Quinn. Just focus on Quinn. Focus on his voice, his tone, how his mouth shapes the words, how his tongue flicks out slightly, how you can just about-

Okay, that might not have been the best thing to focus on.

"What," Quinn asked, swiping a hand across his mouth, "do I have something on my face?"

"N-no, sorry." Bert turned away, furious at himself for being so blatantly obvious in a public space. This is why he needs to go back inside, away from everyone, back where he cant embarrass himself further.

Even though Quinn already knew about his infatuation.

"You uh," Bert licked his lips, not making eye contact and willing his voice to strengthen. "So, when we spoke before, you said something about… Wanting to talk in person, I don’t know if you remember…"

"Ah…" Bert stole a glance at Quinn, who was looking at more or less the same spot Bert had been previously. "Heh, guess I wasn’t so subtle, huh…"

"You're as subtle as a brick, Quinn."

He laughed, which helped to relax Bert slightly. It was fine, everything would be fine, he was being stupid. This was a familiar setting, he’d been here hundreds of times before, and he was with people he knew and trusted.

He kept telling himself this as his insides churned away, heart beating at a mile a minute. He needed to calm down.

Quinn sighed, looking down at the bar beneath them. "So… Do you, I dunno, talk to your family much anymore?"

Bert’s gut wrenched. No, he didn’t talk to his family, ever. He was happy for them to think he’d moved on somewhere and become a successful man of God. He’d rather that then have them know he spent his time ripping his hair out, crying out to a God he wasn’t even sure was there, a sprawling mess. They would be so disappointed.

"No." He said bluntly, hoping Quinn would get that he didn’t want to talk about them.

"Oh… I didn’t- I didn’t mean anything by it, Bert." Quinn’s hand found its way to Bert’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. "We wont talk about that, okay? Its cool, I just didn’t know how to-"

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you ask?"

"Oh…" Quinn looked down again, and if Bert wasn’t very much mistaken, his ears were turning slightly pink. Cute. "It's… It sounds dumb now, but…"

Quinn’s face was the definition of misery, just for a second- eyes down cast and clearly reliving some painful memory- before he caught himself. His hand was still on Bert’s shoulder.

Bert fought the urge to hold it in his own, instead patting it lamely, making Quinn pull away from him. Damn. "What’s up with your family, Quinn?" He was lucky that Quinn was easy to read.

The blonde man raised his head, still not looking at Bert, sighing deeply. This was not how Bert had expected this conversation to go. "You remember my grandma, right?"

Of course he did. Quinn’s grandma had been over almost every time Bert had when they were still in high school. A small, homely woman, always smiling, always baking something. She had her favourites, too. Or, more specifically- her favourite, singular. Quinn was her golden boy, and he loved her to pieces.

If there had been some sort of family dispute, there was no questioning that Quinn would take her side.

"Yeah, of course I do," Bert replied, trying to smile. It shouldn’t have been so difficult. "How is she?"

Bert didn’t like the expression on Quinn’s face. He liked his response even less. "… She’s dying."

Bert’s stomach was doing flips, his heart was in his mouth. It had never occurred to him that Gramma, old as she was, could actually _die_.

And she wasn’t even related to him.

Bert didn’t want to think about how Quinn must be feeling right now.

He couldn’t hear what Quinn was saying, something about ‘malignant’ and ‘vascular’. Whatever it was, it was bad.

Sorry sounded so pathetic, but what else could he say? What could he possibly say to stop Quinn from hurting, to stop the inevitable from happening?

"… If there’s anything you need," Bert said after Quinn had finished brushing off his apologies, "anything at all, really." Bert had been so hung up on his pathetic worries, winding himself up over nothing when people had actual problems.

He was a terrible friend.

Quinn shook his head. He was yet to look at Bert. Bert didn’t know what he’d do if Quinn started crying. Probably run outside screaming or something equally helpful. It wasn’t an image he ever wanted to even imagine, never mind witness.

Once had been enough.

"No, thanks but," Quinn flicked his eyes up at Bert, barely even a real look. His eyes were dry though, which was a good sign. "Just… having someone to talk to, you know. Someone who knew her." Quinn’s voice was impossibly low, Bert could barely hear him over the din of the bar. "… It helps, you know? No one at home will talk about it." Bert slid closer to Quinn, trying not to enjoy the proximity too much. It was just so he could hear him better, that’s it. By ‘home’, Bert assumed Quinn meant his family home and not where he was living at the moment. He didn’t know Quinn’s room mate Frank very well, but he didn’t imagine he would have any particularly strong urge to discuss Quinn’s sick grandmother.

Bert’s throat felt familiarly constricted. Much as he was worried and upset about the old lady, at end of the day, he would get over it a lot sooner than her family. The thought of Quinn being miserable broke his heart, though. He hated to think that Quinn might be in pain right now, how scared he must be. Bert had never lost someone that close to him before. He wished he could hold Quinn for the rest of the night, keep him close, keep him safe, let him cry if he wanted. To just pull every bad thought or feeling out of him and into himself, take it all away and make everything better. But he couldn’t. He had to stay as ‘friend’, not get too close, not scare him off.

Quinn finding out about his adoration suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

Not when this was the alternative.

His solution was to get disgustingly drunk. Quinn seemed pretty down with the idea, once he’d cheered up a bit. And even if they did have to leave early because Bert had picked a fight with a guy twice his size, Quinn at least forgot about his grandmother.

Bert spent the rest of the night vomiting. He didn’t know who’s bathroom he was in, or if it even _was_ a bathroom, it could’ve been anywhere really. He was pretty sure he was going to die, which he told the man attempting to help him up from the floor (who turned out to be Quinn, Bert discovered the next morning).

Had he been conscious enough, Bert might’ve been worried that he wasn’t afraid at that moment. He might’ve been slightly concerned about how good the pain made him feel, the excitement that he could end up in hospital again.

What he hadn’t already forgotten when morning came around, he blamed on the drink entirely. He didn’t notice the cuts, bruises and familiar scratches until he got home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
Bert could barely walk Saturday morning- he had never been so hungover in his life. Everything ached, his head felt like it was going to shatter and his stomach was churning and flipping what little content was left in it. The thought of eating made him feel even worse.

He vowed to never drink on an empty stomach again.

As soon as he arrived back at his apartment (Quinn had walked him back after Bert had drained the coffee handed to him by Frank, apologetic look on his face), he made a beeline for his bathroom, for his shower, turning it on and letting the water run over his clothed body. He pulled the sodden clothes off without getting out of the shower- he couldn’t afford to do laundry right now and everything stunk of puke, why not kill two birds with one stone?- and sat on the floor of his shower, letting the water run over him until it ran cold. It was soothing- he didn’t want to have to get up.

There was no way he could work today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In hindsight, missing work without calling when he was already on his ‘last chance’ was probably a bad idea.

He turned up on Sunday to find his boss glaring at him from the kitchen doorway. "McCracken, I take it you didn’t get our message then."

Bert had not gotten the message. He had heard the phone ring, had seen it was works number, and decided that adding swirls to the edge of paper he’d been writing lyrics on was much more important at that moment. "I’m sorry about yesterday, Mr. Schetcher- I have a reason, I-"

"Follow me, please."

Bert’s boss did not seem to be in the mood to listen to fabricated excuses.

Bert followed him through to his office, trying to calm his breathing- they were all watching him, they all probably knew what kind of punishment he was going to receive. They’d probably contributed ideas as to how to make him suffer the most.

He slipped into the small office and gently pushed the door to, hovering behind the vacant chair in front of him. His chest hurt, and he was distinctly aware of his cheeks and hands. He didn’t want his pay cut- or his hours, not really.

He definitely didn’t want to get shouted at.

"Sit down, Bert."

Bert did as his boss asked, squeezing his hands together in an attempt to get them to stop shaking. He shouldn’t have been this scared. "Mr. Schetcher, I-"

"I don’t really want to hear it, if I’m honest." Mr. Schetcher linked his fingers together and lent his forearms on the desk, leaning marginally closer to Bert. "I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Bert, but this is ridiculous. I have fought for you to keep your job since the court case, higher's up would’ve had you out long ago, it’s a lot easier."

"Mr. Schetcher-"

"You’re a liability. You’re violent to clients and co-workers, you keep missing days without reason, you turn up drunk- don’t give me that look, I can smell it on you- you don’t seem to take this job very seriously at all-"

"Brian, please-"

"I know this isn’t what you want to be doing in the long run, but I need to be able to run this business smoothly. I’ve run out of excuses for you. There’s nothing more I can-"

"Brian you can’t, please. I need this job, I can’t-"

"There’s nothing I can do, Bert. You’ve brought this upon yourself."

"You can’t do this, please, please just, one more chance, I’ll prove-"

"Prove what? That you hate this place and don't want to be here?" Brian sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "... You can see yourself out."

Bert was on his feet, his hands felt cold, he couldn’t see from tears in his eyes. He hated this job more than he’d thought possible, but he couldn’t lose it. It was his only income, he would be nothing without it.

"… I’ll work on half-pay."

"Get out, Mr. McCracken. I’m not going to ask you again."

Bert felt like he was going to be sick. His hands were shaking violently and he couldn’t for the life of him control his breathing, breath hitching in and out of his chest in a near painful manner. He couldn’t even bring himself to care that he was crying in public.

He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t bring his feet to move, didn’t want to anyway. As soon as he stepped out of this building, that was it. There was nothing out there. He may as well go lie down in the middle of the road. He couldn’t leave without his job intact.

He had to work.

He had to do something.

It felt like everything was falling to pieces, crashing down on and around him. Devastated wasn’t even the word for it. This couldn’t be happening, he _had_ to still have a job. He wouldn’t leave, couldn’t leave, couldn’t go back to that apartment with no prospects, no reason to get up tomorrow morning.

At the back of his mind, he knew if he went back now, he wouldn’t ever leave.

He had to do _something_.

"…Don’t make me call security, Bert. Come on now…"

He was making a fool of himself, crying like a child in the middle of this man’s office. But then, he wasn’t going to see him again, was he? What did his opinion matter?

What did any of their opinions matter?

What did anything at all matter?

He turned towards the door, honestly intending to leave quietly. As he pulled the door open, however, something inside him snapped. This wasn’t _fair_. He had nothing to fall back on and they knew that, they were practically killing him.

And his ‘co-workers’ on the other side of the door were working away like nothing had happened. They were getting on with it. They were talking.

They were _laughing_.

_‘You ripped my heart-’_

Every ounce of fear and despair within him flipped to blind rage at the sight, so intense he was sick with it. He hit out at everything he could, knocking dishes to the floor, disrupting work surfaces, even sent a table flying. He felt his hands connect with the softer texture of human skin on several occasions, sometimes underlined with harder bone, sometimes nothing but soft organs beneath his fists. His throat burned from screaming, head searing. Everything was starting to hurt, but it didn’t even matter, there were still things, people, in the kitchen that were intact, that didn’t feel even a drop of the pain he felt then.

_‘Out of me-’_

There were arms wrapping around him, trying to hold him down. As if they could tame him- he was in a feral state. He had nothing to lose, not anymore, mind set on causing as much pain and destruction as he could. He didn’t know if it helped at all, but every time his own skin impacted with anything it buzzed with good feeling. He wanted to rip his skin off in front of these liars, pull his organs out, bite and tear and shred. Add insult to injury, make a scene, make them feel uncomfortable. _You can tear my soul to pieces and I can tear my body. Who wins?_

_‘Then you put it back.’_

His face collided with the pavement before his hands could. Screams and shouting followed him out, a cacophony of panicked noise. He imagined fire, burning to accompany the disruption. He wanted everything to burn, to break it down, tear it into pieces and set it alight. That was how he felt at that moment, dragging himself up from the pavement, blood dripping from his mouth. He was shaking still, barely finding his footing before he felt hands pushing at his back. He only just caught himself before he went flying. They had never had security in the diner before.

Not that it mattered.

Nothing mattered.

He was nothing. And it just…

Didn’t matter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hadn’t gone straight back to his apartment once he left the diner, instead making a detour to the Utahco six blocks from his apartment. A guy who went by the name ‘Jackson’ hung around there, and would buy minors alcohol if they paid an extortionate fee, as well as dealing in pot and meth. Offer him a blow job and you can get the lot for free.

Which Bert did. What did integrity matter?

Ignoring his own promise from a few nights ago of ‘never drinking on an empty stomach’, Bert enjoyed a dinner of a bottle and a half of whiskey and half of the narcotics he’d bought (he assumed it was half- he wasn’t keeping tabs on what he was consuming, just what was left at the end).

He wanted to revel in his misery. He wanted it to hurt. And if it killed him, then that was just one less thing to worry about. He wouldn’t have to worry about finding another job if he was dead.

The box full of sharp objects in his bathroom was out and sitting on the couch before he’d even opened the bottle. There was nothing left for him, Jeph would understand. And even if he didn’t, it didn’t matter anyway- nothing mattered.

Bert pressed the nail scissors into the tops of his forearm, gasping at the sharp sting of pain. It was more intense than he’d remembered, sharper, more accurate. Had anything been important at all he would have been disgusted with himself for having missed the pain.

The precision it brought on lost its allure as Bert became more and more intoxicated, resorting back to scratching- down his neck, his shoulders, his stomach, over the intricate patterns he’d just carved into his arms and legs, blood caking under his nails. He was a pathetic mess who could barely lift his own head, unable to move from his spot in front of the couch for fear of disturbing the imaginary dogs his hallucinogenics had caused him to see, though in the state he was in, he couldn’t co-ordinate his limbs at all, physically unable to move. The neighbours were banging on the walls, rattling his door, shouting something at him. They probably thought someone was being killed- that terrible wailing noise was surely coming from Bert himself.

"No one minds a bit of singing now, do they?!" he slurred at the wall behind his television set, sliding from his sitting position to land uncomfortably on his side as his stomach flipped, hot bile pouring from his mouth. "S’not as bad as HOWLING! Not so bad huh, not so bad as SCREAMING!"

He tried to pick himself up from the pool of vomit he’d ended up in, coughing and spluttering, still shouting detached sentences at no one in particular. He settled for rolling onto his back, talking to the ceiling. Or, singing to it. Completely tuneless, not thought out.

"Bein' faced with what I’m faced with, I feel, like I can’t rock!"

He didn’t know if it was the police hammering at his door, or God, or the burly man that lived below him, but someone broke the door down. "Like… Like, a rock hit my heart…"

Bert was hauled to his feet, the motion disorienting him, causing him to vomit again, before he was pushed towards his bathroom and thrown into the shower. He caught the words ‘disgusting’, ‘fucking shower’ and ‘shut up’ before he was left on his own again, bawling on his side, half in the shower and half out.

When he woke up, he was completely out of the shower, feeling absolutely horrific.

He hadn’t died, though.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert spent a long time cleaning up, drinking water, vomiting, drinking more water, taking as many pain killers as he could hold in one hand and chewing on old crusts he’d found in the breadbin before turning his attention to the wounds he’d received. The bruising was worse than he’d thought- he had probably caused more damage than he’d intended at the diner, not that he’d _intended_ to hurt anyone. He had pretty sure he‘d fallen in the apartment at some point too, but there was no telling where the dark marks came from, really.

He cleaned the cuts very tentatively, disgusted and ashamed of himself. It had been almost a year since he’d taken any thing external to his skin, and the guilt was killing him. He thought of Jeph briefly, how he’d looked when Bert had woken up in hospital that time. It made him feel sick with fear. He couldn’t do that again, couldn’t go through the daily torture of hiding himself away, being permanently aware of his own skin. It made it worse, made him want to hurt more. And to think something as putrid as ‘being dead means I don’t have to look for work!’- Bert was even more disgusted with himself. It was an awful, juvenile thing to think, even if he didn’t mean it. Nothing was worth taking your life over.

Even after all his living alone and working to earn money to live, in reality he was still a snivelling, spoilt brat that marked his skin to get attention, because he was angry. 'Look at me, I’m clearly more important than your own life.' Jeph had been a big part, but really he’d stopped cutting for his own sake- and he had failed. Lost his job, relapsed, and was probably going to be kicked out of his home for drunken disorderly behaviour. He wished he could run away from himself, be as far away from this loser as he could get.

He covered the bathroom mirror with a towel, securing it at the back so it wouldn’t fall down.

He couldn’t stand to look at his reflection.

It took him the best part of two days to get his apartment to an acceptable standard to live in. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long if he hadn’t been fighting a hangover designed by Satan himself, as well as sporting the tell tale signs of an oncoming cold.

Once he was done, all he had to do was sit around feeling sick, watching TV and scrawling pointless, uninspired shit on paper under the pretence of ‘work’.

Even after a week of only leaving the apartment once to get supplies, Bert didn’t mind his new routine.

He would become part of the decoration, part of the furniture.

He was content not leaving his dirty, damp haven.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert didn’t get as wasted as he had the night he lost his job again, but alternated between the three substances each night, drinking or smoking himself into a stupor. He received one phone call that wasn’t someone asking for money off him since he’d been fired, from Jeph, asking him to go out to the bar with him and ‘others’.

Jeph was fine, but ‘others’ sounded pretty ominous to Bert. Also, the alcohol in his apartment was much cheaper, and you couldn’t smoke weed in a bar.

Jeph, obviously sensitive to Bert’s financial worries, had suggested they go out somewhere free, like 'to the park or something’, even inviting himself round to Bert’s. Though his apartment was clean enough for him to live in, it definitely wasn’t in a fit condition to be seen by others. Jeph would probably realise he hadn’t left it in a while, too- Jeph was weird like that.

As bad as the park sounded, Bert had had to agree once Jeph’s tone turned slightly darker. Bert was probably in trouble- probably because he hadn’t seen them in so long and was making stupid excuses.

That or Jeph knew about his job.

Jeph had phoned Bert’s home phone to tell him he was outside, having been told that he couldn’t come up as the water damage was finally being fixed and the workmen didn’t want unnecessary distractions. It was weird seeing Jeph again, but only because it wasn‘t what Bert was expecting. It had been a while since they‘d seen each other, it should’ve felt weird like ‘woah, human contact all of a sudden’, but it was as if they’d seen each other five minutes ago. Bert vaguely wondered if it would’ve been the same had he been with anyone other than Jeph.

Jeph was telling Bert some mundane story that happened at work earlier on in the week- Jeph worked in an elementary school and loved every second of it- and Bert tuned out, mainly to ignore the vulgar twist of jealousy he felt. He didn’t even have a job he hated anymore.

He didn’t remember the street being so _wide_. And it were so full of people, loud people too. Bert wished he had his headphones, just something to dull the overbearing noise, even just a bit. It was like walking through treacle, the sound raising up around him, boxing in his ears and rising up past his throat, choking him. He was going to go into sensory over load- there were too many sounds, too much was happening, everything was too busy- it hurt his head. He was choking, he felt exposed, completely out of his depth. He felt like he was being buried alive.

He wouldn’t complain, though.

He would stick it out- he owed Jeph that much.

He could cope with this.

"… But I guess you know that, all you _do_ is wash shit up, right?" Jeph had been talking to Bert without him realising. Bert had no idea what he was talking about.

"Yeah, always washing, you got me…"

Jeph smiled at him, "How’s work going, anyway?"

Bert’s heart dropped to his feet, adrenaline pumping. How far did he stretch the truth? "It's ah, its not so great right now…" He couldn’t even look Jeph in the eye. He felt like he was flat out lying to him, even though he knew that was ridiculous. He hadn’t been directly asked ‘were you fired’. He wouldn’t mention it unless he was, he decided.

Jeph’s mouth twisted into a strange mix of understanding smile and grimace, "I thought as much, you’ve been really quiet…" he gave Bert a sidelong glance. "Don’t… get mad or anything, but.. Bert, have you lost weight? You look a lot… skinnier…"

Avoiding the problem was going to be harder than he’d thought. They were still a block from the park. "Yeah, you know what its like, busy all the time, forget to eat… It's cool." ‘Busy’ was the exact opposite of what he’d been. He hated lying to Jeph so much. Today was going to be a long day.

Jeph left the conversation at that though, as they entered the park. Even if he didn’t fully believe him, he didn’t show it.

Jeph made a beeline for the oak tree to the left of the entrance, and it was then that Bert noticed the other person. Jeph hadn’t said it was going to be just them, but he hadn’t mentioned company, either.

Bert didn’t know whether to be relieved or distraught when he saw the messy sweep of bleached hair under the oak tree. Had Quinn not had such obviously coloured features, Bert wasn’t entirely sure he’d have recognised him, though. He was hunched over a book of some sort and didn’t smile when he looked up at them. It looked wrong on his face- Quinn should always be smiling.

"Finally managed to get him out of his cave, then."

"Be nice, Quinn." Jeph sat down heavily on Quinn‘s right hand side, leaning forward to whisper something in his ear before pulling his hood up and leaning back against the tree. Bert crouched in the space in front of the two, picking at the grass in a vain attempt to ignore the spiking jealousy he’d felt at their proximity. They were as good friends with each other as they were with him, it was absurd to think they wouldn’t be close. It wasn’t even some kind of boundary breaking, lewd action- it was completely normal. Bert had to remind himself that, despite how he felt, Quinn wasn’t actually his- he had no right to feel anything other than boredom when Quinn interacted with other people.

 _Especially_ Jeph.

Neither of them said anything, and the silence grew awkward. Bert was mildly aware that he hadn’t spoken, so should probably be the one to break the silence, but the longer he left it, the harder it felt to open his mouth. He was also trying to ignore how exposed he felt, sitting with his back facing the public, or how much he wanted to bury himself between Quinn and the tree.

"Well this is great fun, good planning Jeph."

"Don’t get mad at me because you can’t think of anything to say." Jeph replied softly, not looking up at either of them.

Quinn scoffed at him, flicking through the book on his lap. It was old, Bert noticed, but well kept. "Well that’s not _my_ fault, Jeph…"

Was that-

A dig at Bert?

Was Quinn mad at him?

Bert made an unintelligible noise in his throat as he attempted to say something, anything. They were both looking at him, and even though it was people he trusted, people he knew (or hoped) wouldn’t be secretly judging him, Bert still felt uncomfortable under their stare. He could feel his face getting hotter.

"… I see what you mean, Jeph." Quinn said in a dead pan tone, turning back to his book. What did Jeph mean? "Looks like his busy schedule’s broken his vocal chords. Sad, he sang well."

Bert’s stomach felt like it was made of liquid, his chest horribly constricted. He couldn’t remember the last time Quinn was mad at him, not _actual_ mad, anyway. It was horrible, Quinn was the last person Bert wanted mad at him.

He racked his brains for what he could’ve done wrong. He could think of numerous things, but Quinn wasn’t supposed to know about any of that.

"Quinn, come on…"

"Whatever."

The silence was overbearing. Bert moved his tongue around in his mouth, trying desperately to convince his voice to work. The anxiety from earlier was still very much present, though now Bert was convinced Quinn’s attitude was a bigger contributor than the noise of the city.

"Have I done something wrong, Quinn..?" Bert managed after a while, moving around to Quinn’s left slightly.

The book was slammed closed. "Oh, no, don’t worry about any of us. You keep swanning around with your head on cloud writer, none of us matter, please, continue!" Bert dug his nails into the denim of his jeans, unable to look at Quinn. He _hadn’t_ forgotten anyone, he’d seen him not long ago, a week at most.

Or perhaps two.

… Had it already been a month?

What day was it?

"I thought you’d, you know, stick around. Be here for me or whatever... I _really_ needed you around this week, but, you’re clearly too busy, it's fine." Quinn was picking at the spine of the book in his lap when Bert risked a look at him, eyes fixed on the spine. His brow was furrowed, jaw set. Jeph looked extremely uncomfortable on the other side of Quinn, purposely looking in the opposite direction, watching a group of pre-teens playing football.

Had it been anyone else, Bert might’ve gotten angry at them. Bert had a phone, Quinn knew where he lived. Okay, he hadn’t made contact, that was shit, but its not like he _deliberately_ avoided Quinn. He might’ve done that a lot in the past, but this time he genuinely just didn’t think. He hadn’t _abandoned_ him or anything.

He didn’t know if he wanted Quinn to look at him or not. He didn’t know if he should apologise or not.

Quinn didn’t look at him. "She’s dead, by the way. Thanks for asking."

Fuck.

"I-"

"I can barely handle all the support Bert, really." Quinn still wouldn’t look at him. Bert felt sick, again. His heart was racing- he couldn’t admit he’d forgotten about Quinn’s situation. He was a terrible friend as it was, he didn’t want to give Quinn even more reasons to hate him.

"Quinn, I’m so sorry-"

"It’s a stupid fucking cleaning job, Bert." Quinn looked up at him, eyes livid. Not looking had definitely been better- Bert sustained eye contact, but it was difficult. How had Quinn coped with that on his own? It didn’t even bare thinking about. "I guess I’d understand a little better if it was something you love, but it’s a stupid, _fucking_ cleaning job! You completely forgot, and…" Quinn returned his gaze to the book on his knees, taking a deep, shuddering breathe. "… Whatever. Just, really could’ve done with your support, is all. I thought maybe you would care."

Bert couldn’t look at Quinn, but kept his gaze up to coax the tears that were starting to form to stay under his lids. He couldn’t do anything without letting someone down. He was a disgrace.

He shouldn’t have come out today.

He couldn’t avoid it anymore. He didn’t want to excuse his behaviour, he didn’t want their sympathy and he didn’t want to break down in public. But he didn’t want Quinn thinking he had fucked up because he was ‘busy’. That was stupid.

"… I lost my job." he said quietly.

"What?" Jeph asked, leaning forward from his spot against the tree. "When?"

"Few weeks ago, I don’t know…" Bert’s hands were shaking and he couldn’t put his head down even slightly, lest the liquid in his eyes spilt down his face. He hadn’t lost someone important, it was only a job. It was a loss you could easily handle. It was nothing like what Quinn was going through. He was ashamed for being upset at all.

 _It's just because he hates me_ , he told himself. _The job doesn’t even matter_.

"… Well, sorry. About that." Quinn replied somewhat gruffly. "I didn’t know…"

Bert slid around so he was sitting closer to Quinn’s side, thankful to be out of the football's firing line. Jeph had returned his gaze to the game without really watching, brow furrowed, chewing his lip.

"… I guess we’ve both got a lot on our minds at the moment, huh?"

Bert could only nod, his throat closing up. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands, biting at the hem of the right one. "I really am sorry, Quinn..." he croaked out.

Quinn sighed down at his book. "Don’t be. There was nothing anyone could do." His voice was softer, all the malice from earlier gone. Even if it was replaced with pain, at least he didn’t seem to hate Bert anymore. Pain, Bert could deal with. Anger- not so good.

Quinn looked at Bert from under his hair for a moment, before raising his left arm up in an inviting gesture. Bert shuffled closer, falling against his side and burying his sleeved fist into his mouth. He refused to let his breathe hitch. "Hey, come on now, why’re you crying? You’ll be okay, jobs come and go, don’t worry about-"

"I’ve really let you down, haven’t I?" The book on Quinn’s lap had a very intricate spine, Bert noticed as he stared at it.

Quinn pressed his mouth to the top of Bert’s head, squeezing the arm his hand had landed on, pulling Bert towards him more. "Don’t worry about it. I’m not mad. Sorry I got angry, or something."

Bert turned his face into Quinn’s collar, comforted by his scent. They sat there for a while as Bert tried to control his breathing, not talking, Jeph completely forgotten to Quinn’s right. Bert had forgotten how much he’d missed human contact, especially from this particular person. He wondered if they looked like a couple to people passing by.

He hoped so.

He let his mind wonder as he sat there, pressed up against Quinn’s side, running his fingers over the cover of the book on his lap, Quinn running his hand lazily over Bert’s arm. Even if he was a terrible person for Quinn, even if he let him down- Bert could work on that. He would be so much more attentive if they were together, take much better care of Quinn- he would never be uninspired again, and even if he didn’t find work straight away, they could move in together and Bert would keep the place looking respectable as he sent out applications. He would cook proper meals, too, and Quinn would smile at him all the time, would hold him like this all the time, would kiss him and tell him he didn’t care if no one was hiring him, Bert was still perfect in his eyes. They would be so happy together.

He imagined that everyone who passed by assumed this about them.

It’s the way things should be, anyway.

"She left me this." Quinn spoke after a while, hand joining Bert’s on the cover of the book. Bert tried to ignore the rush of fear as their hands touched- how clichéd was that, Jesus- as Quinn ran his hand across the title.

"‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales’?"

"Yeah, she used to read them to me when I was little." Quinn opened the cover with a small, sad smile, revealing a beautifully detailed two page spread of an enchanted forest. Bert wished he’d known Quinn when he was little, had seen his excited face as his Gramma read German folklore to him. "Tom Thumb was my favourite, that guy always got one up on, well, just about everyone. For like no reason too, most of the time. I wanted to be him." Quinn turned the pages slowly, opening at a page half covered with text, half with a line drawing of a small man standing on someone’s cupped hands.

"‘There was once a poor countryman,’" Bert read aloud from the page, "‘who used to sit in the chimney-corner all evening and poke the fire, while his wife-’"

"Don’t." Quinn’s hand covered the page. "Don’t, don’t read it out loud, please…" His voice sounded thick, and when Bert looked up at him he could see his eyes were glistening. He was swallowing a lot, too. "It's, uh, yeah she, read them out a lot, you know..."

"Sorry… hey, come here, stop that." Bert took his hand from the page and wrapped both arms around Quinn’s middle.

Quinn choked out a laugh, "Sorry, it's, really it's fine." They sat in silence for a while, and Bert let his eyes slip closed. He was so _tired_.

He never wanted to move again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had had to move again though, once Quinn got uncomfortable.

The three had stayed in the park for about an hour before they decided it was too morbid or boring or hot, or all three. When Bert announced he was going home, he was dragged off in the opposite direction towards Quinn’s apartment. "You don’t have to pay to go there, you can manage that, come on!"

Bert thought about his apartment, sitting empty, and how it could be flooded or struck by lightening at any given moment. Someone could break in, or maybe there was something in his cupboard that was still salvageable and was just about to go off any second. Had he turned the lights off? And the gas on the oven? Was the place going to blow up while he was gone? Or would the land lord show up, see it was unoccupied and throw all his stuff out?

Bert wasn’t permitted to worry about those things, however, as he was dragged up to Quinn’s dorm.

"Frank, you in?" Quinn yelled as soon as he got the door open, receiving no reply. "Oh.. He must’ve gone already…. He says he’s going out with ‘everyone’, but that’s bullshit, we’re here for one, and I know for a fact Will’s not going and he didn’t say anything about anyone else going…" It was so good to hear Quinn talking like himself again, Bert could’ve screamed with happiness. "He’s been all doe eyed and mysterious recently though, I reckon he’s got his eye on someone… And hey, you’ve seen how close he is with Jamia, twenty bucks says he’s seeing her tonight…"

"I’m not a gambling man, Quinn," Jeph replied, throwing his jacket on the nearest chair and making his way to the fridge, "but I’d totally bet on that if I were."

"Right? I mean, he’s got that artist friend that he talks about all the time, but apart from that I know like everyone he talks to- it's gotta be her. Good though, they’d make a great couple…"

Bert sat on the couch, spreading out comfortably. He imagined what it would be like if Quinn’s dorm was actually _their_ apartment, and their good friend Jeph had come over for dinner.

He liked that image a whole lot.

Jeph found beer and plenty of edible supplies in the fridge, so the three drank and cooked (or, the three of them drank and tried to cook before Bert got annoyed at the other two, shooing them out of the kitchenette). Bert hadn’t eaten a proper meal since long before he’d lost his job, surviving off snacks, alcohol and food-2-go. His mouth watered just thinking about eating what he was cooking.

Bert soon stopped worrying about his apartment and the impending doom that would only happen if he wasn’t there to protect it, settling down to eat a generously sized portion of pasta (vegan, of course, to Jeph’s request). The three talked easily as they ate, Bert contributing when his mouth wasn’t full of food.

Jeph stabbed at his pasta when the conversation lulled for a moment, clearing his throat. "This is really good, Bert." he said, waving his pasta tipped fork in Bert’s direction. "You’re uh… How are you paying for food right now?" He was having trouble keeping eye contact, trying too hard to appear calm and unaffected. Bert noticed Quinn stop eating and look at him under his hair from the corner of his eye.

Bert carried on eating. It wasn’t their problem to worry about. "I’m not. It's fine, I have food in my apartment." He looked up at them both, deliberately but hopefully not aggressively. "You don’t need to worry about that."

"... Okay, if you’re sure." Jeph said, returning his attention to the plate in front of him. "You know where we are if things are getting tough, though."

Quinn nodded enthusiastically from his seat opposite Jeph.

"Thanks," Bert said, finishing up his meal. "I won’t, but thanks."

The three continued drinking in Quinn’s room for a while after they’d eaten (Jeph and Bert both tactically keeping silent about the washing up- they were Quinn’s thing, anyway), eventually growing tired and squishing up on Quinn’s single together, talking about stupid things like what Quinn would spend his inheritance on. Quinn suggested buying a van and just leaving, until Jeph pointed out that they could probably afford a van now, that wasn‘t really inheritance worthy.

Bert traced the pattern on Quinn’s shirt with his index finger, not thinking about his skin underneath at all, not once, of course not, never. He moved his head slightly on Quinn’s chest, making himself comfortable. He could have happily spent the rest of his days like this, curled up around Quinn with Jeph wrapped around his back, breathing on his neck.

He didn’t want to go back to his damp, disgusting apartment. He wanted to stay wrapped up with the people he loved.

"Quinn, can I stay here forever please." Bert asked, picking off bits of the pattern on Quinn’s shirt. Oops.

"Course you can, Rob, Frank won’t mind. Couch is pretty comfy, you know." Quinn replied without opening his eyes, running his fingers through Jeph’s hair.

Bert bit his lip, trying not to giggle like a little girl. He loved it when Quinn called him Rob, even if it was usually an accident. He was the only person who had ever called him that.

"Can we keep Jeph too?"

"Oh good, I was remembered…"

"Hell yeah, if you two don’t mind spooning it up on the couch-"

"Don’t think so, Allman. There’s clearly enough room here for three, be a good Mormon, share with us."

"I'm no Mormon, shut up. And I’m falling off here, I’ll have you know."

"Really, coz this freezing cold wall is just _peachy_."

Bert shuffled between them. "I’m comfy, at least."

"Yeah? Well good for you, at least someone is."

"If Quinn lay on his side this wouldn’t be a problem." Bert wasn’t sure how far he could take the jokes now that Jeph knew about how he felt about Quinn. Suggesting Quinn lie on top of him to save space could potentially result in Jeph going quiet and fidgety, causing Bert to melt through the bed and into a hole of shame in the ground.

"It is my bed, I have the right to lie on my back if I do so please."

"In that case, don’t moan when you fall off." Jeph said, shoving Bert so Quinn went flying off the edge. Bert wondered if he could fling himself off too and land on Quinn, blaming it on being little or Jeph being stronger than he thought.

He’d probably left it a bit long now, though.

Was delayed falling a thing?

He didn’t get a chance to try it out, though, as Quinn soon got up and dropped himself on top of the two left on the bed. "Quinn, fuck, get off, I didn’t do anything to you! This is uncalled for!"

"Jesus, you weigh a tonne for a stick boy."

Quinn retorted by sticking his finger in Jeph’s ear and leaning his weight forward so that Bert wasn’t so crushed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jeph and Bert left at two in the morning, bleary eyed (though thoroughly amused at Quinn’s groans that followed them out, having just seen the state of the kitchenette). Jeph had offered to walk Bert home, even though he had work at eight that morning.

"Working on the water damage, huh?" Jeph asked as Bert opened the door to his apartment, leaning against the doorframe, eyebrow raised but smiling. "Not doing such a great job are they?"

Bert winced. "Yeah, sorry… I thought if you saw the place you’d, you know, do that Jeph thing where you know everything…"

Jeph hmm’ed at him as he entered the apartment, surveying his surroundings. The place as a state, even by Bert’s standards. Jeph found his way to the kitchen and ran his hand along the surface, most likely picking up a disgusting array of crumbs and general dirt in the process, turning his attention to the messy piles of paper strewn across the table. Bert retreated into his room under the pretence of putting his jacket away- Jeph wasn’t a critical man, but Bert was still uncomfortable being around as Jeph looked at the disgusting squalor.

Bert returned to the main room of his apartment, jacket still on. He’d forgotten that he couldn’t take it off right now, couldn’t expose his marked skin.

Jeph made his way around the tiny apartment and was soon stood in front of the wall opposite Bert’s bedroom door, staring at the legend scrawled across it.

Bert rarely drew, but still had a couple of thick marker pens lying around from his high school years, where he’d had a habit of drawing unidentifiable doodles on any surface he could find. He had found a couple of these pens a few days ago (days, weeks, he couldn’t remember. He knew it wasn’t yesterday, that was about it), but rather than decorate his wall with pictures like before, he’d written out what he felt was an important message to himself.

Jeph’s hands were wringing behind his back as he regarded the messy, lower case letters. ‘fuck it, i’m fine’. It was something Bert needed to remember- there was no problem here, he was fine. He couldn’t understand Jeph’s uneasiness.

"I don’t think your landlords gonna be as impressed with your work as you are, sadly."

Bert laughed dryly. "I’ll paint over it, or something. It felt important at the time."

Jeph was quiet, still looking at the wall. He eventually tore his gaze from it, observing the rest of the room briskly before looking straight at Bert. His expression was troubled, but clouded with non-chalance, as though he was trying to hide his concern. "Bert, maybe you should like… I dunno, talk to someone?"

Bert sniffed at him, turning away. He was not insane, and what would he say to anyone anyway? ‘I lost my job and now I am sad.’ he wasn’t paying someone to tell them that- he knew that.

He told Jeph as much, to which he replied, "Well, it doesn’t have to be someone professional, Bert, I’m sure a friend would be just as good… Its just," he licked his lips, looking uncomfortable. They had both moved closer to the door. "Things are pretty rough right now, dude. It may well be nothing, but it never hurts to talk to someone… You know?"

Bert opened the door. He was sure that if he hadn’t been drinking early he would’ve been more gracious about Jeph’s crazy idea now. "Just… Think about it, okay? You know I’m always here, Bert…"

"I’ll call you later on this week, dude. Great seeing you again, take care." Bert ushered Jeph out, closing the door before Jeph could finish what he was saying.

He didn’t need to talk to anyone. He definitely didn’t need to burden his closest friends with his pathetic whining. He would think of something, would put their minds at rest- regardless of what he said, they were still bound to worry- this was his own fault and he would pull himself out of this without dragging everyone else down. It wasn’t a big deal. Something would work out.

But not tonight.


	4. Sub Terrain

Bert shifted underneath his covers, making himself more comfortable as he scrunched his eyes up against the morning light- he’d probably forgotten to close the curtains again. He rolled onto his right side, facing the window and cracking his bleary eyes open at the figure lying next to him.

Quinn smiled sleepily at him, reaching his arm out clumsily to pat Bert’s head. "Morning." He all but slurred, scratching over the pattern on his shirt with his other hand. It was from some camp he’d been to when he was about ten- it had been too small for him when Bert met him, and was definitely too small for him now.

Quinn laced his fingers through Bert’s hair and rolled towards him, onto his side, right arm falling gently across Bert’s hips. His white-blond hair practically glowed with the sun behind him, framing his face like a halo. He was still smiling, blinking slowly as he fought off sleep. Bert had never seen anyone so beautiful.

"Sleep well?" Quinn asked, wriggling closer to Bert before pressing his lips lightly against the dark haired man‘s. Bert should’ve replied, but with Quinn so close, his intoxicating scent all around, his breath fanning Bert’s cheeks, and with that delicate pressure to his lips- words weren’t easy to come by. He ran his hands up the sides of Quinn’s face, pulling him back in and kissing him, for longer this time, as the arm across his hips pulled him closer, until he was pressed flush against Quinn’s body.

Quinn broke away from the kiss, panting lightly and pushing on Bert’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back. He shifted his weight so he was entirely on top of Bert, bracing his hands either side of the smaller man’s head. Bert could barely breathe with the heat of Quinn above him, pressing down against him, kissing him passionately. The air was thin and far too hot, but it didn’t matter- they were far too preoccupied to care.

Bert pressed his hands against the naked contours of Quinn’s back and shoulders, digging his nails into his tanned, sweat slicked skin, pulling him impossibly close, grinding his hips up against him- anything he could just to feel him closer. Bert let his head roll back, heat pooling in his stomach as Quinn slammed his hips down against him, fingertips going numb, head swimming. He moaned softly as Quinn kissed up his neck, teeth scratching along his flushed skin every now and then.

  
Quinn pulled away suddenly, looking down at Bert, panting. He studied Bert’s face, lips parted, hands wrapped around Bert’s wrists up by his ears.

"What?"

"I just-" Quinn released Bert’s left wrist in favour of running his hand down Bert’s neck and chest, eyes following his hand. "You are just so beautiful, is all."

Bert smiled, looping the fingers of his freed hand into Quinn’s hair, pulling his face down towards his own. "And the same could be said about you, I-"

"If you know the answer," Quinn interjected, licking his lips, "just call this number."

"I- what?"

Quinn met his gaze, smiling lopsidedly. "Call now for your chance to win this book, _absolutely_ free!"

Bert’s hands dropped to his sides as he closed his eyes. "You have got to be kidding me…"

"Four winners will be chosen from this weeks draw! To be entered into this weeks draw, that number again-"

Bert slammed his left hand against his alarm clock, stopping the obnoxious voice coming from the radio-alarm. He opened his eyes, frowning up at his ceiling, alone in his bedroom and painfully hard.

He didn’t even know why he still set his alarm anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert stayed in bed for a few more hours after his alarm went off, continuing his fantasy as best he could in the bleak, grey morning light. He finally rose at lunchtime, moving the short distance to his kitchen table, notebook and pen out, tin of beans (cold, of course- microwaving took far too much effort) open before him.

The sparse witterings he’d managed to pull from his mind in the past few weeks were starting to take some kind of form, the quantity remnant of a days work a few years ago. It was nothing important or of any value, but it was _his_ and it was _new_. He had managed something- he wasn’t completely useless.

Bert sat adding details to his favourite piece so far- this part would make a decent refrain, including but not linked to this shorter part. It could be repeated after this second stanza as well as the first- as the silence slowly set in around him, silence he barely noticed usually. It crept in behind his ears, across his throat- every creek became audible, deafening. He sat there pouring his soul out onto the paper before him, acutely aware of his surroundings and the severe lack of life in his vicinity.

He was completely alone.

He’d been alone for a long time now, but it had never seemed important, never a real ‘thing’. It was a comfort, most of the time. A refuge, time to himself, time to think.

He had far too much time now.

He felt alone.

His heart in his hand, on this page, and he was entirely alone.

He wanted to scream, fill the silence with something other than oppressive loneliness. He needed to see someone, see his family, see _him_ , anyone. They would forget about him otherwise- he would be left to rot inside his self made prison and no one would notice.

He could shout as loud as he wanted, they still wouldn’t make it to him.

They didn’t _know_.

How could they?

How could anyone?

He didn’t want them to. He wanted them to be happy. He was glad they didn’t know how far he was sinking.

Not that he could ever admit that he was sinking, drowning in his own failures and lack of self worth.

He could handle it.

It would just be easier if he wasn’t so _alone_.

The pen started to bend under his tight hold, creaking. Bert released the pressure he hadn’t realised he’d applied, setting the pen down on top of the notebook. Maybe he should get out of the apartment, even just to the grocery store. There would be people there, other customers who would recognise him, who would stop to ask how he was. Mindless chatter was better than nothing, the check out girl would have to talk to him too if he bought something.

She’d have to look at him, with his unwashed hair and unshaven face. She’d have to see him as he hadn’t seen himself since he lost his job, mirrors all completely covered in his apartment. Sit there with her _job_ and look at him, know he was unemployed, judge his income based off what he was buying. Watch him get nervous, know she was making him uncomfortable, but sit there smacking her gum anyway, staring. Looking beyond the hair, the clothes, the money, she’d figure it all out. See all the marks on his skin, notice him pull his sleeves down just enough to cover his hands, see the fruitless, pathetic affection he had for his friend just as clearly- know all the things he thought about, the things he wished he wasn’t.

He never once mentioned his sexuality at the diner, but they’d _known_. They’d looked at him and known. It wasn’t something to even care about, it didn’t change anything, but it made him _different_ to them. _They_ cared. _She_ would care, too. She might not even serve him, kick him out for being a low life, a dirty faggot, a failure and a liar.

The grocery store was much too dangerous a place to be, much too exposed. If one check out girl could potentially go so sour, imagine how all those neighbours and passers by could be.

Bert decided to visit his mailbox instead- it was technically ‘out of the apartment’, so he’d done what he’d said he would.

When he got to it, mail was spilling out of his box. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there, last time he’d collected any mail. Scooping the contents of the box out, he made his way back to the apartment, head down and using both arms to hold onto all his letters, shuffling quickly as he heard voices approaching him.

Maybe seeing people wasn’t so important after all.

He threw the mail onto the kitchen table before closing, locking and chaining his door. He couldn’t believe he’d left it on the latch for that long, anyone could’ve come in.

He turned towards the now messy table, trying to calm his breathing. There was a lot of angry red letters staring up at him from the envelopes before him, a whole lot of final demands on bills he’d forgotten even existed. So many people asking for money, he wasn’t even sure if there was any over lap with the phone calls or if they were completely independent. Either way, it didn’t matter. He had no money, he couldn’t pay them.

He flicked through the hoard of envelopes and brightly coloured fliers, heart sinking. Bill, bill, junk, bill, rejection letter- oh good, exactly what he wanted- bill, junk, bill, bill, _another_ rejection letter, bill, bill, final demand…

He stacked them neatly into piles before throwing each one onto the floor. They were all pointless. His trip ‘out’ had been a disappointing one, leaving him with nothing but reminders that the only people who cared whether he was alive or not were the ones that wanted something from him.

Until he turned over the last envelope.

The only remaining one without the words ‘FINAL DEMAND’ printed across it in bright red.

He ripped it open.

‘Congratulations’

‘Impressive resume’

‘Interview’

Bert couldn’t bring himself to actually read the words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘Taskers Inc.’ was a well renowned media and publishing company, even producing its own local magazine for other companies dealing in media. They were very high class and regimented by definition, the type of place Bert would have turned his nose and middle fingers up to when he first left home.

They also paid _very_ well.

The recruitment office was closer to Bert than the faculty he would be based at if his interview went well, though his apartment was located more or less directly between the two buildings. But distance wasn’t an issue here- he’d walked further than that on a daily basis as a kid, just to get to school.

His interview was to be held at nine am Tuesday morning, and when ‘Tuesday’ gave Bert nothing to work with, he called Jeph to ask what day it was. In his excitement he hadn’t been able to think up a good excuse for Jeph, so ended up spending ten minutes grinning and saying "I know, its great, I know" down the phone. He only avoided a visit and ‘celebratory bender’ because Jeph was actually at work when Bert called.

He had three days before his interview.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On Monday night, Bert dug around in his disorganised wardrobe for the only suit he had (crumpled and particularly dated) and shaved as best he could without a mirror. He assumed they wanted someone clean shaven, official looking. His mantra when he first started looking for work was that he was an ‘artist’, and therefore portraying his own personality was much more likely to get him places than dressing and acting like everyone else.

After two years of that not working, however, he was happy to change his attitude.

He contemplated taking the razor to his hair, trying to neaten it up a bit, but considering his severe lack of mirrors it was probably a risky move. Better to leave it- his face was bald enough to balance out his hair.

The nerves hadn’t set in until then. It hadn’t seemed quite real, just a distant goal (if you can count three days as distant), but as he stood there in his suit, imagining how he must look and wrinkling his nose at the damp smell his clothes emitted, his stomach was doing somersaults. This could be it. This was his escape route, his chance to break the spell at long last, make something of himself. He was ready to be free.

This _would_ be his chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert stood looking out onto the street outside the front door of his apartment complex, feeling desperately uncomfortable, urging himself to take the next step out onto the street. He felt exposed and stupid in a suit- it was horrible, and it wasn’t _him_ , not at all-and the skies were turning a murky grey. There were so many _people_ on the street, it was ridiculous- how could they possibly _all_ need to use the sidewalk right outside his home at this specific moment in time?

Bert seriously considered turning around and going back upstairs. He wasn’t brave enough for this, and he couldn’t shake the self taught feeling that he was going to fail. He could barely get off the front step, how was he supposed to make it through an interview with people he didn’t know?

He took a deep breathe and closed his eyes, trying to imagine he was underwater. These people were nothing, they didn’t give a shit who he was or why he was walking next to them. They were… NPC’s, not real. That’s all they were, jut figures dotted around to make the journey more difficult ( _you_ try heaving through crowds when you’re shorter than average…), make it more realistic, more of a challenge. The ends would mean more if he’d worked for it.

He could do this.

Bert took a step out into the street (this was _nothing_ ), turning in the direction he needed and carrying on as if he hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes trying to work up the courage to do just that.

But despite all his convincing, it wasn’t so easy once he set off. There was so many people, their combined presence felt like a huge vice crushing Bert from all sides. His head felt heavy with the pressure of their gaze, skin itching and burning from it. The only thing, the _only_ thing he could possibly think of to save himself was to avoid all contact with any of the people he passed- as soon as their skin touched, he was done for. The contamination would spread, he would burn up.

But avoiding contact was so _difficult_ on such a busy street. Bert felt sick- he couldn’t do it, couldn’t be here. His vision was going blurry, head spinning. He could barely breathe, panic rising from the pit of his stomach, up through his chest to his throat- he feared it may spill from his mouth at any moment. He felt like he was about to scream, almost wanted to, wanted to push everyone away, throw them out of his path, just _stop_ everything, slow it down, for the love of God just slow it down. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stay there. It was hopeless, he just _couldn’t_.

Bert dug his fingernails deep into the palms of his hands. It wasn’t far, and he needed this. He _had_ to get to the administrations office, had to make the interview, had to impress them, had to succeed. He could do this, if he could just make it past the throngs of people in his way- just make it through this initial challenge. He could handle the rest.

Somehow he managed to convince his legs to move, managed to take the steps he needed; slowly, deliberately, repeating ‘this is nothing, this is nothing’ over and over in his head, palms burning from the cutting pressure of his nails. Bert focused on the sound of his own breathing (it was loud enough to be heard from _Mexico_ , it wasn’t hard to focus on), the whooshing in and out of his restricted chest. His legs and neck felt stiff, prickling with fear and hurting from the tension within them. He was managing to avoid the masses so far.

His stomach did back flips and he nearly screamed at the top of his lungs when someone- some business man on his cell phone, cup of coffee in hand- clipped his shoulder. Bert stopped still, tightly clenching his teeth together in an effort to stop himself from emitting the wailing cry he could feel crawling up his throat. He was too exposed, he was in _danger_ here, every inch of flesh twitching, alight with adrenaline. His head felt heavy, his hands were shaking, he was sure he was going to be sick. If he turned back now he could probably make it back to his apartment, back to safety, without having to encounter any of these people.

But he could see the administrations office from where he was stood.

He closed his eyes and thought of the life he’d had two years ago, the confidence that had been spilling out of every pore, the friends he’d had, the love and support his family had provided. That boy could do this without a second thought. It was just walking a couple of blocks and going into a building, no challenge at all. Bert didn’t know when he’d changed, but he wished that he hadn’t. He needed to be that boy again, needed to be himself again. And he would start by getting to this interview.

Somehow he managed to move his feet, managed to fake confidence for just a few more steps, managed to arrive at the front of the building, near throwing himself through the doors as soon as he was close enough. Inside was safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Except inside was not necessarily safe. In fact, inside was very similar to outside, aside from the addition of a ceiling with inside. Even at the faculty centred around the maintenance of the company rather than those which have contact with the outside world, Taskers Inc. was a metropolis of commotion, full of fast paced, no nonsense ‘business’ types with no time for anything that wasn’t their current task. It was bustling with work orientated people, with noise, heat, movement. Bert felt extremely claustrophobic.

He tried not to think about how much busier it would be at the heart of the company, where he would be situated.

He had barely made it through the lobby and he was overwhelmed.

After about ten minutes of loitering as close to the door as he could, feigning interest in a plant (and hiding behind it as best he could), Bert finally dragged himself to the front desk. He felt dizzy- he was sure he was dreaming. The only things he was aware of was the beating of his heart and the sweat running down the side of his face. It was getting more and more difficult to breathe the longer he stood there.

He wished he could take his tie and jacket off.

He wished he’d worn shorts.

Bert fumbled with the papers pushed towards him by the receptionist once he‘d stated his name, trying to listen her dull drawl, hoping he wasn’t missing anything important. It was impossible to concentrate on what she was saying.

He moved in the direction he’d been pointed in, stopping at the garish plastic bench and sitting down, assuming that this was where she had intended for him to go. Bert took a seat and started to flip through the sheets in his hands, trying to calm his breathing as all the information passed over him- nothing was sinking in. Diazepam- that’s what he needed. That would’ve sorted him right out. But no, he’d left the house with nothing but a mouthful of whiskey, as though being drug free would _help_ or something.

The only thing he managed to get from the top sheet in his hands was ‘Mr M. Way, Artistic Director.’ Way was a common enough name, but it was mildly comforting to Bert, regardless. An old flame of Bert’s had had the same second name, an arty boy, talked with his hands too much. When he talked about something he really cared about, when his hands came up and waved around like they had their own personality, it had always made Bert feel calmer. He was lulled into this boys world, taken away from society and real life, even if it was only for a moment. He was given time to breathe.

Despite the split, he wished that arty boy was here now, explaining the complexities of Rorschach’s character to him, jerking his hands all over the place as if his evaluation held extreme importance to the continuation of the planet. He needed to breathe right now.

"Robert McCracken?"

"What?"

Bert looked around to the man who had called his name, a slim man in an Italian cut suit, giving him a look which was somewhere between sceptical and amused. "Robert McCracken- is that you?"

"It, yeah sorry, that’s... That’s me, yeah." Bert stammered, standing up too suddenly, dropping the sheets as his vision went black for a moment. He bent down to pick them up, flustered and embarrassed as well as mildly impressed with the intensity of that head rush- it had made his fingers go numb.

Bert saw the man turn away from him as he stood up, sheets in hand. He rushed to catch up- the man had started talking to him. "My name is Michael Way, I’m the Artistic Director here at Taskers Inc. Your interview will be with Andrew and will last between ten to fifteen minutes. You will be asked questions to assess both your professional ability as well as your personality. Remember the way because I won’t be coming to escort you out." He stopped, turning towards a door on the left hand side, opening it but not entering. They had ascended to the second floor, and the entire right wall was ceiling-to-floor windows, looking out over the city. It looked small from here, Bert noticed, before turning to the open door and the man sat behind the desk, looking up at him expectantly. "Any questions?"

"Uh, yeah." Bert cleared his throat as Michael ushered him into the room. "You have a fancy job title, why’re you showing people to their interview rooms? Does Artistic Director mean bus boy in business talk or something?"

Michael gave a short, humourless laugh. "No, this is my way of meeting everyone as I don’t have the time to execute the interviews myself."

Michael started to close the door, turning to face Bert on his way out. "I’m the head of your faculty, you see. Your boss."

Bert stared at the door for a few moments after it closed, contemplating how he had just called the man who could be his new boss a bus boy. That was a good start.

The man behind him cleared his throat. "Please, take a seat."

Bert did as instructed, hoping to make up for his previous blunder by being as well behaved as possible (and thinking before he opened his mouth). "So, Robert Edward McCracken, born 25th of February 1982 in Orem, Utah, correct?"

"Uh, yeah." Bert replied. His throat felt sticky, he could barely manage to get the words out. His head felt heavy, vision starting to swim, panic rising in his chest once again. He was trapped now, there was no where to go and no way out without making it through this interview. His hands were shaking, sweat starting to bead on his forehead once again. He felt stifled in this suit and this room, and especially under this man’s gaze.

He hadn’t even been asked any difficult questions yet.

He needed a cigarette.

Bert answered the questions put to him as best he could, trying to use short sentences wherever possible, scratching at his wrist under the cuff of his suit jacket. Questions spilled over him, he barely comprehended a word said to him, answers near automatic. There was surely not enough thought put into his answers, he worried he might say something stupid, which only served to make him more nervous and therefore pay less attention to what his interviewer was asking.

"Mr McCracken, are you alright? Would you like a glass of water?"

"P-please." He was choking, his tongue was too big for his mouth and he was sure he was going to be sick. His hands were shaking so badly, when the water was passed to him he could barely keep a hold of the glass.

"So, your previous experiences…" Bert inhaled deeply. He had assumed it was subtle, but judging by how his interviewer rose his head to look at him, it had probably been as obvious as a brick to the head. The man across the desk gave Bert a long, measured look before piling his papers into a neat bundle, placing them lightly on the desk. "You know, I think that’s all we need. You look like you could use some fresh air anyway, right?" The man rose from his chair, extending his hand. Bert didn’t move from his seat. "Thank you for taking the time to come down here today, I wish you all the best in the future."

"What?"

No.

The man’s hand dropped to his side. He made his way to stand just behind Bert, who kept his gaze on the now vacant chair. ‘!o the interview’s over? I’m done now? When will I know your decision?"

The man looked at him steadily for a moment. Finally, he spoke, "… Shall I call someone to show you the way out?"

"Wait, I-" Bert put the glass on the table, still holding it with his left hand. 

"I’m sorry Mr McCracken, but you’re not right for this position. We have your contact details, however, so if in future anything-"

"How am I not right? You didn’t finish the interview, I-"

"I’m very sorry, sir, but on this occasion-"

"No." Bert stared at the glass in his hand. "No, no you can’t just throw me out, okay, you don’t know what its been like-"

"I am terribly sorry, sir, but we can’t-"

"You’re not listening. I need this job, please." Bert felt a sickening sense of déjà vu, only this time the job had never been his. He felt cold, hopeless. It hadn’t worked, he had failed yet again. He kept his eyes on the glass, turning it slowly on the table. "Please, I’ll do anything, I- it doesn’t have to be the writing job, I can be a tea boy or something, I don’t, I’ll clean up everyone’s shit if you want-"

"Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

Bert picked the glass up and smashed it into the wood work beneath him. The room was suddenly filled with a thick, heavy silence, disturbed by nothing but Bert’s heavy breathing hitching in his throat. He turned around as he heard the man move behind him, leaping to his feet. He grabbed at the man’s wrists as he made his way to the emergency phone on the wall. Bert was sobbing, shaking violently. He couldn’t believe he’d ruined his chances again.

The man shook his hands desperately, trying to get Bert off him. But he didn’t have the same level of conviction as his captor, nor the strength brought about through desperation. "Please, I’m begging you, I can’t go back, you have to help me, please, please…" Bert sunk to his knees, utterly shameless, still holding onto the man’s wrists as his pleas started to lose coherency, sobs becoming more and more prominent as the man tried in vain to pull away from him. Bert didn’t stop his begging, even kissing the man’s hand a few times in an attempt to convince him to help. He couldn’t think straight, he didn’t care how he looked right then. If he could only get work through pity then so be it- it was still work, the finer points could be dealt with later.

Security eventually appeared- the man must’ve hit the emergency phone in some way- prying the screaming, blubbering man off an extremely freaked out interviewer. The security here was much more professional than at Schetcher’s diner, the men hoisting him up at the armpits and making him walk through the halls, in front of everyone, to the front door rather than throwing him out of it. It was the first time that day Bert hadn’t cared that people were looking at him.

As soon as he was outside, Bert slumped against the wall of the building, sliding down it into an ungraceful heap, sobbing profusely. The interview hadn’t even lasted the full time, the man had gotten sick of him less than half way through. What was it he’d done? Was it the nerves? Did they not want someone so nervy? Or maybe it had been decided as soon as he entered the room, maybe his look had put the man off. Was he not interesting enough? Not talented enough? Experienced enough? While part of him wanted to march back inside and demand to know which of the many things he could think of were their reasons for rejecting him, the rest of him knew that every one of them was true. It could’ve been any of those things, potentially all. They probably sensed it as soon as he’d walked in and hidden behind the fucking plant.

Though they kept glancing at him through the windows, security didn’t shoo him away from the building, thankfully. Bert felt like his heart was breaking- he had actually convinced himself that this was going to work, that this was his chance, that it was worth his time. He wanted to rip his heart out, spit on it, tear everything to shreds and just stop living. His head was pounding from the crying, from the stress, from the disappointment. He couldn’t even bring himself to score narcotics from Jackson, instead making his way straight back to his apartment and locking the door.

Once safely locked inside, Bert screamed. Screamed from repeated failure, from disappointment, from anger at himself, self-hatred, and for all the things he had let happen, had let build up. He screamed for all the reasons he wasn’t who he used to be, for all the chances he never took, the opportunities he hadn’t taken and, ultimately, because he should’ve known this would happen. Because he’d known the whole time that he wasn’t good enough, that nothing he did would ever get him anywhere. Putting on this ridiculous clothing didn’t make him successful, and his efforts were to go unnoticed. What he wrote was no good anyway, he hadn’t compared it to anything else, but he knew, the whole time he _knew_ it wouldn’t work, yet he let himself believe. Everything was his own fault, he had no one to blame. And it was killing him.

Once his throat was hoarse from screaming, he pulled on his tie, letting it constrict his windpipe. Never mind being what he wanted to be, he would never be anything _at all_. There was no point to him. All he could achieve was ruining himself more.

Once his vision started to go blotchy, he pulled the tie off his head, along with the jacket and shirt. He dug his nails into his shoulders and dragged them down his front, slowly, screaming as he did so, before picking the tie up from where it had landed on the floor. Bert kicked his kitchen table as hard as he could as he tied the tie around his middle, knocking one of the legs off so it collapsed onto the floor and the mail he still hadn’t moved. Collapsed like everything around Bert was collapsing. But it was fine, he could live in rubble.

With the table in ruins, Bert threw the smaller tables across the room, knocking his phone over and receiving a satisfying crack as they splintered against the fridge and walls. He pulled the cushions off his couch, trying his best to rip them as much as possible. When his hands started to bleed he dropped whatever he had been shredding, grabbing each end of the tie around his middle and pulling as hard as he could. He felt like his insides were churning up, ready to burst from his body- making the pain physical was his only defence. The tie started to creak and fray as Bert’s vision started to swim again, he could barely breathe. He threw up on the floor, not even caring that he covered his cushions more than anything, before collapsing, barely conscious. The tension loosened from the tie as it slowly came undone with his breathing. He vowed to never leave his apartment again, not for food, nothing. He could rot for all he cared.

He didn’t want to be alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert pointedly ignored the incessant knocking on his door that evening. He hadn’t made any attempt to clean up once he’d been able to stand, instead heading straight for his bed and curling up, crying and worming his thumb nail as deep into his inner arm as possible, wishing he’d thought to grab a razor but adamant that he wasn’t getting up. He could hear the people outside his door talking and even, God forbid, _laughing_ , of all things. It was disgusting. There was no way they were coming in.

The talking turned to shouting and hammering on the door. "Bert! Come on, I know you’re in there!" Jeph yelled. "I have your key, you know, don’t think I wont find my way in on my own! You’re not allowed to celebrate by yourself, come on, we bought champagne. Champagne! Can you believe… But yeah, come open the fucking door, dick."

Bert dragged himself to the door, unlocked all the locks then turned and climbed straight back into bed. The door was opened cautiously, Jeph calling out a quiet ‘hello’ as he let himself in.

"Holy fucking shit, did a tornado pass through or something?!" Quinn asked no one in particular as he pushed the door to.

"Bert, where are you?" the clunk of something heavy being put on the floor could be heard as Jeph opened the bathroom door, completely disregarding the Bert-like lump under the bed cover.

He made his way through to the bedroom straight after- the apartment was far too small to lose someone in, anyway- Quinn at his heel. "Bert?" he nudged Bert lightly with what one can only assume was his foot. Bert sat up suddenly, slightly pleased when Jeph jumped back.

"What."

"Dude, scared me there… Why’re you sitting in the dark, anyway?"

Quinn moved past Jeph before Bert could answer, throwing his arms around Bert’s shoulders. "Jeph told me about the interview, man, that’s so great!"

Bert decided there was no point in fighting his instincts and wrapped his arms around Quinn’s middle, holding onto him even when he let go and made as if to move away. Quinn stood where he had been caught, awkwardly petting Bert’s hair, throwing glances over at Jeph.

They both stood quietly for a moment, stillness settling between them as Bert continued to shamelessly cling to his friend. Eventually, Jeph spoke, "So… I’m gonna put a light on, hold up- So… do I ask how the interview went, Bert?" he asked, rudely flooding the room with light.   
Bert let go of Quinn and fell face first onto his blanket. He lay there for a moment, fully aware that they were both staring at him but not having the energy to care, trying to holds back a shiver as he felt Quinn’s fingers lightly trace his ribs.

He sat up and looked at Jeph. "How the fuck do you think it went?"

Jeph chewed on the side of his thumb, holding Bert’s gaze. "… I’m sorry, man."

"So before you come storming in with your celebrations and what the fuck ever else you have, do stop to remember that I’m God-awful at absolutely everything."

Jeph dropped his eyes to the floor, hand still obscuring part of his face. "… I just… thought you’d get it. I’m sorry."

"So did I…" Bert picked at his sheets instead of meeting Jeph’s gaze. There was no way he was going to cry in front of them. Never again.

They didn't need that.

"How did you get these, Bert?" Quinn asked quietly from behind him, running his finger tips over Bert’s ribs once more. He turned to look the man he loved in the eye, void of facial expression or any form of explanation. Quinn must have swallowed at least six times in the thirty seconds Bert had been staring.

"I don’t know." He replied, deadpan. There was probably no point in lying anymore, but he wasn’t going to outright admit that he had submitted to his old addiction, especially since Quinn hadn‘t known the first time around. He would feign ignorance until they stopped asking.

He turned away from Quinn’s gaze as soon as he could, not knowing whether realisation had clouded his expression and not wanting to know, either. He didn’t want to deal with their disgust, or ‘worry’, or however it is they dressed it up. He didn’t want to have to deal with them at all, or anything for that matter.

"You might as well just go."

"Bert-"

"Please."

With wary glances thrown between them, Quinn and Jeph left Bert’s bedroom. They did not, however, make any attempt to leave the apartment, instead loitering in Bert’s kitchen. Bert didn’t know if they could see his look of disdain and were ignoring it of if they simply hadn’t noticed.

From his retained seat on the bed, Bert could hear their voices drop in volume, turning to low mutters. He overheard a few of the words- ‘really bad’, ‘help him’, as well as a distinct ‘look at this place- its disgusting’.

Bert’s innards churned as he wound his hands into his bed sheets, knotting them up until the material bit into his skin. They were mocking his home, his lifestyle, mocking him for his failures and because he couldn’t pull himself up. It wasn’t his fault, and if he could pull himself up, he would have done so long ago. They didn’t understand. They swanned in with their busy lives and assumed that that was just the way things were, that’s how it worked for everyone, so that must be how it worked for Bert too. But it didn’t. They didn’t know what went on in his head, didn’t know how much he had going on as it was, how impossible it would be to break his routine… he wasn’t them. He resented the very idea.

He resented wishing that he _was_ them even more so.

Quinn’s head appeared around his doorway, face troubled. "How’re you paying to stay here, Bert?"

"I’m not." he all but spat out, anger still edging his voice and mindset.

Quinn raised his chin slightly in a half nod, ducking back out of the door to reveal an astounded Jeph behind him. "And they’re okay with that? Your landlords, I mean?"

Bert pointed vaguely in the direction of his floor-mail, hoping Jeph would get where he was indicating. "Yeah, they love it, they keep writing to me to tell me how much they appreciate my redundancy."

Jeph scanned the floor quickly, clearly not registering the pile of paper Bert had left behind the couch and turned back to Bert. "That’s no good, dude. C’mon, just-" Jeph sighed heavily, running an aggravated hand through his hair. "Just let us help you or something. You can pay us back when you find your feet, it's really no trouble-"

Bert rose from his bed for the first time since his friends’ visit began, buzzing with rage and adrenaline down as far as his fingertips, hairs standing on end. "What kind of sick fuck are you." He spat, sizing up to Jeph. "Is that how you get your jollies? Making people feel like scum? Does continually rubbing your riches in my face make you feel like a big man, huh? Does it get you off?"

Bert was practically shaking with the burst of adrenaline, envisaging Jeph getting as wound up as he was, enough to hit out.

Bert wished he would hit out.

"Bert, Jesus, I’m trying to _help_ you here-"

"And did I fucking ask you to?!" Jeph took a step back for every one Bert took towards him, eyes defiant despite his retreat. "No, I don’t think I did. So why don’t you go find someone else to pity, okay? I am not your fucking charity case."

"No," Jeph’s back his the door as it was pushed open by Quinn. Neither of the two had noticed him leave the apartment. "But you are definitely ungrateful. Who the fuck do you think you are, who d’you think _we_ are?!"

"Jeph-"

"You really think we’re actually gonna think less of you, d’you really think we care?"

"Don’t…"

Jeph took a step towards Bert, who had stopped advancing as soon as his argument had been countered, all of the fight flooding out of him as quickly as it had appeared. "We just don’t want you chucked out on the street, okay?" Jeph reached a hand out to put on Bert’s shoulder. "You have enough problems as it is, the last thing either of us wants is-"

"What fucking _problems_." Bert hissed as he batted the offending hand away, every inch as furious as he had been moments before; heart pumping, mind racing. "I don’t have _problems_ , I’m completely fine. You have no idea what you’re talking about-"

"Oh come on, jut look at yourself! Look at this _place_ … Its alright to need help every-"

"I do _not_ need help, and I do _not_ have problems!" Bert grabbed the door handle from behind Jeph’s back, herding the two out of the door as he did so. "You don’t know what you’re talking about, so don’t even fucking try. If you’re really that worried, that nosy, go help someone who deserves it, not some unemployed fuck up!" He slammed the door on them, storming back to his room and slamming that door too. They had no _idea_ , about anything. There were people who really, _really_ needed help in the world, yet they were getting themselves worked up over nothing, bothering him in the process.

Bert didn’t notice the pile of papers Quinn had left on his key table until morning came.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quinn had snuck out whilst Jeph and Bert were arguing to pay off Bert’s debts over the phone. His theory was that his Grandmother would prefer it if her inheritance money was spent on something worthwhile like keeping Bert alive, rather than blowing it on an expensive guitar or something similar.

Bert didn’t know whether to be furious at Quinn or touched that he would do such a thing for him. He had already had bailiffs around to price up his possessions, he had been holding onto his apartment by the skin of his teeth. But this blatantly counted as charity, and there was no way Bert would be able to pay Quinn back for a long time. Bert hated having debt, especially from his friends- he would save adamantly until all of this debt was paid off, and Jeph’s- this dependency was no way to live.

But being angry or moved to tears didn’t really matter as Quinn wasn't in his direct vicinity and the phone was in a different room. It was much too far away, so Bert dealt with the news by going back to sleep, thinking up ways he could repay Quinn, a gift he could give him whilst yelling, maybe even offering the money straight back. It didn’t matter that he didn’t physically have it, he could imagine for now.

He didn’t deserve that kind of favour.


	5. Rock Bottom

The next few days passed by as a blur of similarity. Bert would wake up each day, somehow, would eat something, sometimes, would sit, stare, sleep, watch TV, fall asleep, repeat. More often than not he would get over whelmed, would lash out on his decaying possessions or his decaying body, leaving more destruction than had time to heal. The squalor of his home was causing his health to suffer, not that he particularly noticed that his cough wasn’t going away or that blood came up every time he was caught with a particularly vicious attack. He didn’t notice the red swelling and leaking pus of several of his self inflicted wounds, didn’t notice his hair falling out, nor did he notice just how thin and pale he had become.

At times he managed to convince himself that he was happy, sitting contently by the bedroom window, watching the people scuttle about on the ground, smoking. There were times where he was able to ignore the oppressive loneliness, times where he could leave himself behind and become truly absorbed in the people below him. He could mock them, mock how they carried on their daily life, completely unaware of him. They would scorn him, assume themselves better, but he _knew_ \- he had been given the gift of knowledge, this sight had led him to philosophise, to understand people at every possible level. Everything they did was so _trivial_ , they just didn’t know what he knew. Maybe they never would.

Those times were few and far between, but they always brought with them ideas for writing. Nothing like what he used to write, his style had recently turned much more analytical. If he focused on his emotions, even slightly, he would break.

Time moved very strangely for Bert. It seemed to pass by over him, disregarding him as it affected everything around him, including his home. He had cleaned it a few times, shooed out the bugs and cleaned some of the cobwebs, removed the rotten food from his cupboards, binged on anything edible he could find when he noticed just how hungry he was. But overall the place looked abandoned. Bert couldn’t remember the last time he showered or changed his clothes.

At some point he realised that the weather was getting warmer- was spring coming or summer? Had winter passed? Perhaps an Indian summer? Had Christmas passed? His Birthday? Jeph’s? Quinn’s? What month had he lost his job? When had he last seen anyone? When had he last eaten?!

Though he had all these questions, none of them seemed important enough to seek an answer to.

So he slept when the sun rose, and woke up however many hours later.

And continued to exist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At some point during his existence Bert had unplugged his phone. When it was plugged back in he was met with a wave of voice messages, many more than he had expected. They were mainly from Jeph and Quinn, who ranged from worried to terrified, from pissed off to non-chalant. He had also received messages from the bank, his landlord, an agent he had used a long time ago (but had dismissed as he believed she would stunt his creativity), as well as a few messages from his family. It appeared he had missed Christmas.

All he wanted to do was call home, to talk to his mother, hear her voice- just catch a glimmer of normality, of contact with his old life. The urge was so overwhelming it rose up his throat, made his eyes burn and heart break with want.

He never did call, though. He couldn’t bare to let them know how far he had fallen. Though he convinced himself that he was fine most of the time, at the back of his mind he knew. He knew that everything he was doing was wrong, that he had fallen too far, that he wasn’t well. There was definitely something wrong, but he had no idea how to combat the problem, no idea how to get help, and no idea how to handle how much the realisation hurt.

It was easier to ignore it and continue to tell himself that he was fine.

The next time his phone rung, Bert answered. It could’ve been days since his phone was unplugged, maybe a week- it could’ve been months, half a year, he had no idea (though he was pretty certain it hadn’t been too long- he would surely have starved to death if it had been).

"Holy shit, you answered your phone."

"Hey Quinn, yeah it got unplugged a while back, I only just-"

"Are you gonna be home for long?"

Bert fought to stop himself from laughing- as if he ever _left_ home. "All day everyday, dude. Why?"

Quinn hung up without offering an explanation, leaving Bert confused and slightly offended. He was surprised at how weak his voice was, despite having not used it in however long. His voice was something he never thought he’d lose.

Bert was alone for no more than ten minutes before Quinn was knocking at his door. When Bert opened it Quinn visibly recoiled, wincing, slightly. "Man, you stink."

"Good to see you too, have a pleasant journey home." Bert replied with his scratchy voice, moving to close the door, ignoring how much he wanted to drag Quinn inside.

He could stay with him. He could become part of Bert’s new little world. He would brighten it up, make everything better. All the dark spots would fade away into a serene yellow. Bert had learnt to exist without needing the outside world, he could teach Quinn. They could co-exist, just be near each other- Bert was far past hoping anything would happen between them.

The want never left him, but the hope died long ago.

Bert missed human contact more than he had thought possible.

Quinn pushed against the closing door with his right hand, making his way into the disgusting apartment. "Get in the shower, we’re gonna make this place liveable again, okay? I brought you some groceries too, when did you last eat anyway..?"

Bert muttered a half hearted ‘don’t tell me what to do’ as Quinn set the grocery bag down on the kitchen table, but skulked towards the bathroom regardless. Once under the hot jet of water, he took his time, enjoying the warmth whilst trying to calm his erratic heart beat. Quinn shouldn’t still have this effect on him, not after all this time. It wasn’t fair.

Bert had never really been one for showering- it took too long and he would only get dirty again within an hour or so, so it made no difference- but standing there after however long it had been, he started to feel slightly human again. He spent a long time on his hair, washing it several times just to feel the suds pour off his head, move down his shoulders, stomach, knees, ankles. Had he not had company, Bert was pretty sure he could’ve spent all day in there.

When he finally left his steam filled bathroom in nothing but a towel, Quinn had already made some progress on the mess. Bert’s kitchen actually looked slightly like a kitchen again.

Quinn looked up from what he was doing when he heard Bert enter, face dropping obviously as his eyes took in Bert’s physique. As his friend’s eyes moved across him, Bert saw himself for the first time as Quinn must. He had become painfully thin, and almost every inch of him was covered in angry red marks, some of which showed obvious signs of infection. He was pale, corpse like- he only vaguely resembled a human being anymore. Bert vainly tried to cover his torso with his frail arms, extremely self conscious. None of these things had bothered him before, it hadn’t mattered, not until someone else noticed. Until he’d burst in and flipped everything on its head.

Bert had only been watching Spongebob an hour ago.

Scratching his arms, he made his way into his bedroom as Quinn started to talk to him. He didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Not now, not ever, if he could help it.

_It’s all in how you mix the two…_

Quinn didn’t follow him into his room, which Bert couldn’t figure out if he was happy about or not. He took his time in there, dressing himself with shaking hands, deliberating over precisely which socks to wear out of the several pairs of identical ones, slightly perturbed when he realised everything he had picked up was dirty. When had he last done laundry? Had he ever done laundry?

At least his apartment would be a bit cleaner now.

He appreciated the help, he really did, but a small part of him was constricted with fear. Quinn was touching _everything_ , things that had set places. Admittedly, they weren’t currently in those places, but they weren’t being put back in the correct places either. Quinn had turned up like a whirlwind, picking everything up regardless of if it was good or bad. Moving, cleaning, scouring, _changing_ …

Bert leant against his doorway, watching Quinn work. He dug his nails into his arm, attempting to ignore the panic rising in his chest. He didn’t want this, he hadn’t asked for this, it was _wrong_ and Quinn didn’t seem to notice.

He was just like all those people Bert watched from his window, all walking around with their sense of self importance, fulfilling meaningless tasks, thinking they were so much more superior than everyone else. They believed this ‘education’ they had meant they were better than the next man they passed on the street, the oddly dressed man, the man who couldn’t afford to feed himself. They lived in a bubble, moving through life interacting with, but never really _seeing_ , the people they were talking to, too high off important business deals and social status. They didn’t know people, _especially_ the ones who thought they did, they knew least of all. They were the type to waltz into someone’s life- their home, even- and decide it was all wrong. They would take it upon themselves to change it all, ‘fix’ it. Mould it, ruin it, squash it down until it fit into what they considered acceptable. The worldwide level of acceptance known as ‘normal’. Change everything until it fit into their nice little niche. Because normal wasn’t scary, normal was allowed. Just follow the rules and no one gets hurt.

Fuck the rules.

Bert pushed off from his post, ripping the papers from Quinn’s hand and throwing them in the air, letting them fall wherever. He then pushed past his bewildered friend, tipping the cleaning products off their spot on the side so they clattered to the floor, spilling. He pulled his cutlery draw open, shook it until half of the contents fell out, purposely ignoring Quinn’s shouts until he felt strong arms wrap around his shoulders, lifting him off the floor with ease.

"Bert!" Quinn spun him around to face him, hands on his shoulder so he could look the shorter man in the eye, "what in God’s name are you doing?!"

"What God?! Is there a new one you suddenly believe in now?!" Bert pushed Quinn’s hands off of his shoulders and proceeded to bend down, messing up whatever he could find on the floor, pulling things off the sides to join the mess. "You’re wrecking it, Quinn, you’re ruining the balance, there’s a certain order to things here-"

"You have got to be _kidding_ me…" Quinn walked in the opposite direction to Bert, hands in his hair. He looked pissed off- probably because his handy work had been tampered with.

"I never asked you to do this, Quinn," Bert retaliated, voice rising as he stood, potted plant in his hand. "Things have to be in a certain state, and you’re wrecking it with this, this…"

Quinn marched the few steps towards Bert, eyes livid. He grabbed the plant out of his friends hand with ease. "You have got no idea how lucky you are, have you?! To have friends who would… that would risk-" he swallowed, raising the plant pot up to eye level as he spoke. "I hope one day you have to go through this, have to watch someone you love deteriorate and reject _every_ inch of help you try to give them. This," he shook the pot, "goes over here."

Bert snarled and lunged for the pot. ‘Love’, how dare he use words like ‘love’ to Bert. As if he had any idea what that word meant in relation to him. He knew _nothing_. "Don’t touch my _shit_. You don’t know what you’re fucking doing, you don’t know what its like in here, I _need_ it like this, I don’t want _you_ ruining everything. Stop getting your stink all over everything."

Quinn stared at Bert for a moment, eyes wild, before throwing the pot full pelt at the wall behind Bert’s head. "There, how’s _that_ for your little order?!"

Bert was shaking. He’d _broken_ it. He’d come in and given everything a 180, Bert felt uncomfortable in his own home. He couldn’t explain it, Quinn was one of _those_ people, he wouldn’t _get_ it. "You’re ruining it!" he screamed. He could feel his face getting hot, and he knew he was repeating himself. He knew how childish he sounded, but he couldn’t get it all out. He couldn’t do anything but shout and lash out. "Get out, get _out_!"

"How ‘bout this couch, huh? Surely you’d like it better if the cushions were _here_ -" Quinn threw a cushion in Bert’s general direction, "or maybe _here_ -" he threw another in the opposite direction, where it hit the open drawer as it fell to the floor. Bert threw himself at Quinn then, hands going straight for his throat, trying to drag him away from his furniture and out of his apartment.

Quinn had reached breaking point- when Bert swung for him, he swung back. At the best of times he had had the advantage of height and weight over Bert anyway, and with Bert’s depleted form and the addition of blind rage, Quinn had every advantage going as the younger man threw himself haphazardly in his direction.

It was almost embarrassing how unevenly matched they were.

But animalistic instinct can help a man more than one would expect. The months of misery, the weeks of loneliness, the years upon years of unrequited feelings, coupled with the sudden, inexplicable rush of desperation gave Bert an edge. He fought back with fervour expected of a wild animal, hitting and kicking back at his attacker, wanting to cause as much damage as he could to everything around him, screaming in a primal manner.

He wanted him to hurt.

He wanted to hurt.

He wanted him out.

H wanted him to never leave.

He wanted him to fix things.

He wanted to be taken care of.

He wanted to stop feeling forever.

He wanted Quinn to rip him limb from limb, to completely break him.

_Choke me._

_Choke me._

_Choke me!_

_CHOKE ME!_

Whatever rage that had built up in Quinn diminished much faster than it did in Bert, the fight burning out his irrational anger. Bert sat where he had landed as Quinn pulled himself to standing, wiping a bloody lip with the back of his hand and spitting in his friend’s direction. "Bert… You’re crazy…"

Quinn ripped the door open as Bert snarled at him from the floor, "You’re so fucking crazy."

He marched through the door, leaving it open.

Leaving his coat.

Leaving his dignity.

Leaving Bert sobbing hysterically in a heap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bert didn’t move for a long time after Quinn left. He couldn’t, partially from physical exhaustion, partially because his retching and crying were so overwhelming he couldn’t focus on making his limbs work, partially due to the crippling fear he felt.

If he had lost Quinn, he didn’t know what he’d do.

Eventually he managed to drag himself to his bedroom, trying hard to catch his breath and crush the building anxiety and despair growing within him. Because really, aside from the occasional sporadic appearance, Quinn was rarely even there anyway.

Bert had lost him long ago.

He gulped at air, talked away his anxieties, tried his hardest to calm himself down, to convince himself that it was fine- Quinn didn’t hate him, he hadn’t ruined anything. Fights happen, it could be sorted. He did this until he lost sight of why he was doing it, until all his reasons blurred into a mess of illogical hopes.

Because really, he could see it- all the things Quinn had just barely mentioned. All his bad points, how much he pushed people away. If he were Quinn, he’d use that as a decent reason to never have to come back, to avoid the deranged artist for the rest of his life. He was disgusting, and the only silver lining he could find in the whole situation was that Quinn was free now- they all were. He’d cut everyone off, and now there was no one left to get hurt by his existence. They didn’t have to deal with him anymore.

He could really set them free.

Set himself free.

Be done with this shit stain he called a life.

He could tear everything down, rip his whole life apart.

Make sure no one came back for him.

_Then on that last day, he breaks._

Bert got to his feet, pure, unabashed misery and hate blinding him. He was desolate, desperate and hurting. He wanted everything to stop.

He tore at whatever furniture was still intact, barely aware of what his hands were doing, acting out through searing emotion alone. Bert ripped apart shelves, threw everything out of his closet, out of all the cupboards. Anything he could get his hands on, he just wanted it all- away. Broken, destroyed, erratic- all of the things he would describe himself as. The room had to be in as much of a state as his mind was.

_‘He felt like he was being buried alive’_

Bert wanted to feel it all.

He wanted to feel nothing.

Ever again.

_‘He would become part of the decoration, part of the furniture.’_

_‘He wished he could run away from himself, be as far away from this loser as he could get.’_

_‘He was so_ tired’

Bert’s mind was full of all the injustices he had suffered, everything that had built up over the past few months. Every chance he’d missed, everyone and everything that’d been taken away from him.  
  
 _‘"I’m very sorry sir, but on this occasion-’"_

He had tried so hard. He really had. He had stuck at things he hated so much, but there was nothing solid, not certain achievements from his suffering.

_‘"Get out, Mr. McCracken. I’m not going to ask you again."’_

It all felt so pointless now. All the times he had gone to that God forsaken place, all the failed interviews, the times he’d done good. That place wouldn’t have been able to run if it weren’t for him, wouldn’t have been able to manage. But all anyone would see was his failures. See him get angry, see his disgraceful exit. He had nothing to show for all the time he had had to suffer in the place he had despised so much.

_‘"There’s nothing I can do Bert. You’ve brought this upon yourself."’_

_‘"You’re a liability."’_

He shouldn’t have even tried.

The end result would’ve been the same, anyway.

Bert dug his nails into the backs of his ears, pulling his hair as he scraped his nails down his neck, screaming. He was sick of everyone, sick of himself, sick of every single aspect of his life.

_Was it that good to begin with?_

There was nothing in his past life that he could hold onto, not anymore. Nothing he could cling to, that he could strive towards. He looked back and all he saw was the disgusted faces of strangers-

_‘"For fuck’s sake, will you watch what you’re doing you dirty faggot!?"’_

\- the friends he had hurt, the relationships he had ruined-

_‘"I've really let you down, haven’t I?"’_

\- and of the family he had lost long ago.

_‘"Do you, I dunno, talk to your family much anymore?"’_

And it broke his heart.

The tears that fell from his eyes as he pummelled the fallen cushion were only partly from frustration. He was angry, with himself, with his situation, sure, but it wasn’t why he was lashing out. Not really. It was rarely why he lashed out. It wasn’t why he lashed out at Jeph, why he over reacted when he lost his job and failed his interview. It stemmed from something else, this pure misery deep inside him that he couldn’t explain.

_‘He was breaking. He was falling to pieces and there wasn’t even anything wrong.’_

_‘He had never struggled like this before.’_

_‘It wasn’t_ fair _.'_

It was a permanent presence within him, this ugly cocktail of fear, shame, self loathing, and despair. This grotesque mixture that he rarely noticed, that had crept up on him as he shrugged it off, as he assured himself that things were fine-

_‘ ‘fuck it, i’m fine’ - there was no problem here’_

\- pretending to the rest of the world as much as himself. All of these things that lurked below, untouched until he was on his own, until he had only that to focus on. When all his safety nets, fake smiles and monotonous routines broke away, when he was left, stripped bare with only himself for company.

_‘"No one minds a bit of singing now, do they?! S’not as bad as HOWLING! Not as bad, huh, not so bad as SCREAMING!"’_

_‘You can tear my soul to pieces and I can tear my body- who wins?’_

All of those things he kept to himself, that he had fought so hard in the past to save himself from.

_‘It was more intense than he’d remembered, sharper, more acute.’_

But, as with everything, he had failed to keep himself contained. He had failed, again, had fucked up yet another thing. His destruction was proof of his own short comings.

Bert slouched against his kitchen table, surrounded by the destruction he had just produced, mind spinning too fast for him to keep up with. He didn’t want to think about the state of the place, about what he was holding, what he’d ruined for good, whether the place was torn enough or torn too much. It really didn’t matter. Everything he’d said to Quinn, in hindsight, it just didn’t matter. What even was this place to him? A container of his pathetic life, a roof to cover his useless head, storage for his worthless scribblings’.

He didn’t want it.

He was sick of everything.

Nothing even mattered.

Bert didn’t know what he was clutching in his hands, and didn’t care either- whatever it was, it was solid, made of sharp edges that dug into his numb skin. Numb- that was exactly what he wanted. The numbness he’d felt before, when he’d taken it too far. The horrible, monotonous nothing that he could drown himself in, the heart wrenching emptiness that he despised so much. If he could lose himself in his only defence mechanism, maybe this agonising misery wouldn’t be suffocating him right now.

Maybe he wouldn’t care about all of his mistakes, about how much he disliked himself, how he had hurt everyone. And really, deep down, that’s what hurt worst of all. He had not only pushed them away, but hurt them in order to do it. What good did it do? Where they really ‘protected’, not knowing he was breaking? How far had denial taken him? It caused pain, the worst pain he could imagine without physical embodiment.

_And he stood tall…_

He was unbelievably lucky to have even one person care about him as much as his friends did, never mind two. People who genuinely liked his company, despite the lack of reasons he provided them to want to be anywhere near him.

_‘He didn’t want to go back to his damp, disgusting apartment. He wanted to stay wrapped up with the people he loved.’_

_‘"Things are pretty rough right now, dude, It may well be nothing, but it never hurts to talk to someone…"’_

He was stupid to think they wouldn’t notice, that it wouldn’t hurt to have all their efforts thrown back in their face.

_‘"I guess I’d understand a little better if it was something you love, but it’s a stupid, fucking cleaning job…"’_

_‘"- you’re clearly too busy, it’s fine"’_

_And he yelled…_

Bert had dropped whatever he had been holding, blood running down his fingers and streaking his face. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter right now. He pulled his hair at the roots, moving pointlessly from place to place about his apartment, grunting and whining, crying and gasping for air, not sure what to do with himself or what was even happening anymore. He was losing control, the fabric of his mind slowly unravelling.

He shuffled the fallen cutlery around the dirty floor, knocking more things about in an attempt to pick them up. His mind drifted to the most pathetic thing of all. All of these ridiculous, unreturned feelings that made him so vulnerable, so hyper aware and self conscious. He constantly humiliated himself with half hopes and repetitive wishes, pathetic, childish ideas that maybe-just-maybe he’ll be enough-

_‘- despite what he felt, Quinn wasn’t actually his-’_

\- that perhaps these ridiculous fantasies could become more.

As if that could ever happen.

As if that was even _plausible_ , a rodent like him with someone so disgustingly out of his league it actually hurt to think about.

He was ashamed at how his heart soared when he thought about his friend, still, and after all this time, the feeling never dampened. And he was sick of it, he hated how alive he felt, how unworthy, how hopeful and content.

_‘He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this’_

Because the higher he rose, the worse it felt when the reality of his uselessness kicked in. It would be easier without a guiding light, without that one spark that made him feel alive. If he could be dead the whole time, he’d have nothing to lose. It’s hard to miss something when you never had it.

But losing it was one of the worst pains imaginable.

The look in his eye when he had finally given up.

Bert had been right not to hope.

Right not to wish.

_‘"You’re so fucking crazy"’_

He should’ve given in a lifetime ago.

_-… WHY._

The word fell from his mouth as a bitter, guttural cry. Pouring out like harsh ocean waves, crashing and scraping his vocal chords. It was simply too much.

Bert’s hands clasped the cutlery in his hands, throwing it to the side as he continued to scream. He couldn’t. He just _couldn’t_. Nothing worked anymore. Everything he was, everything he had been, he couldn’t anymore. Nothing worked.

He should be destroyed. He deserved all of it, all the pain that manifested inside himself, everything that exploded out onto his skin. And he was right to tear himself to pieces. Of _course_ he was, how hadn’t he seen it before? He knew. He knew an awful lot. He understood now, this breaking point, ‘paint it on yourself’, ‘let them know’. He’d been so blind.

His grip tightened around the kitchen knife that had landed on the counter. This weapon of great art- this could _paint_ him, decorate him, expose him for the failure he is. He could find where it hurt the most on his arm, that spot- there, you’ve got it- the spot he’d always avoided. Drag it down- deeper than that now, come on, you want to _feel_ something, don’t you?- down to the tip of his middle finger. He could see _bone_ , maybe, if he looked really hard.

If there wasn’t so much blood, perhaps.

Pooling out or his severed artery.

The noise in his head, the pain and anguish and voices, all silenced suddenly as Bert looked down at the wound he had inflicted on his wrist. His momentary slip. The deep cut from inner elbow to middle finger, the cut he could barely see through the thick, red blood pooling out of him; through the swimming of his head and haziness behind his eyes.

Bert made a choking sound, dropping the knife in favour of clutching at his arm with his uninjured hand.

He hadn’t meant to do that.

_He hadn’t meant to do that._

_‘He hadn’t died, though.’_

The world flipped over onto its head, spinning out of control as he panicked, hyperventilating. This wasn’t supposed to happen- what had he _done_?!

_‘Nothing was worth taking your life over.’_

In his hectic state, Bert somehow managed to grab a towel from the bathroom, wrapping it around his bleeding arm. There was so much _blood_.

He hadn’t meant for that to happen.

He moved with new found agility, fuelled purely from adrenaline and fear. He had to stop the blood flow, had to calm down, had to do _something_ \- he could die at this rate. Bert was out of his depth, he couldn’t handle this alone.

It was an _accident_.

The tiny voice at the back of his mind that told him _don’t tell them_ was silenced by his blurred vision and desperation. He called the last number registered on his phone.

_I don’t want to die._

He clutched the phone as best he could to his ear, sliding down the wall to sit by his front door. He didn’t think he’d manage very far walking down the street, despite his panic he still felt so _tired_. He felt like he was going to throw up any second, or pass out.

Neither of those things were allowed to happen.

Bert gripped the handset tighter with shaking hands, choking out a sob when an annoyed voice finally replied a curt "Yes?" down the phone.

"If you’re phoning to say you’re sorry-"

"Quinn, please," Bert gasped out, voice weakened from his previous screaming, "please, I’m so scared…"

"Bert?" Quinn’s tone changed instantly, concern immediately flooding down the phone, "What’s happened, are you okay? Bert talk to me…"

"I, I don’t know," Bert swallowed, allowing the words that he had once been too proud to utter spill out of his mouth, "Please, help me, oh God help me, I don’t know what to do-"

"Stay on the line, I’m coming over- Talk to Branden, _answer him_ , okay? Are you listening?"

"Quinn-"

Bert let himself fall onto his side as Quinn’s voice vanished from the other end of the phone. He could vaguely hear someone talking in the background before Branden’s voice filled his head. Bert moved the phone to his chest, eyes slipping closed, just for a second. He didn’t want to think of Branden’s voice, not just now. He wanted to dwell on Quinn’s for a moment, before he showed up. Probably with Jeph. He could nap for just a second, right? They’d wake him up when they got here. They’d sort him out.

The sensation had gone from his legs, warmth enveloping his lower body as his arms tingled with sensation, chest still gently shaking with sobs. The edges of his vision were black as he let his eyes slide closed- just for a second. "Please… Help me…"

He didn’t hear his friends break into his apartment.

He didn’t notice them shake him, or hear them call his name.

He didn’t move from his place on the floor.

He didn’t make it to the hospital.

And he didn’t wake up.

_… And he took his life…_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quinn had stormed straight from Bert‘s apartment to Jeph’s, brimming with anger and frustration. He had been so _angry_. He’d spent a good half hour complaining, venting his frustrations to his unbiased friend, even after he’d calmed down enough for the anger to become worry. Quinn didn’t _like_ being worried, and it seemed to happen too often when Bert was involved. He’d just wanted his friend to get better, to see that he was sick in the first place. He’d just wanted him to let them in, let them help. He hadn’t meant to shout. He hadn’t meant to cause problems.

The phone call he received a few hours later, however, indicated that he had indeed caused problems.

Despite himself, Quinn turned his nose up at the number displayed on his cell phone. Pathetic post-fight apologies were unbearable at the best of times, but Bert had a tendency to act like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t been fighting with you at all, and that you were being a dick if you were even slightly off with him. Problems weren’t supposed to be ignored, they were meant to be dealt with.

He did, however, want to talk to Bert, to try to sort things out. He couldn’t leave things as they were for long.

Quinn answered his phone with a curt "Yes?", mildly pleased at himself for keeping up his stony exterior. Bert didn’t answer, but Quinn could hear him breathing heavily, the sounds of him moving and opening his mouth every so often.

"If you’re phoning to say you’re sorry-"

"Quinn, please-"

The tone of Bert’s voice completely threw him; he sounded so small, so terrified. Quinn could hear Bert’s voice shaking, taking desperate gasps of breath and his choked, agitated sobs. Quinn’s insides felt like ice- this wasn’t how his friend acted, _ever_. He was forgiven, anything, anything at all to stop his voice from pathetically quaking like that.

"-please, I’m so scared…"

  
"Bert? What’s happened, are you okay? Bert talk to me…" Hedidn't breath,  _couldn’t_ breath. He might break if he breathed, might shatter the line, lose Bert in a haze of distance. In another haze.

Jeph rose from his seat, sending anxious looks over at Quinn as Bert replied. "I, I don’t know," a breath, "Please, help me, oh God help me, I don’t know what to do-"

Quinn went into autopilot, saying something he hoped was encouraging down the phone as he grabbed his jacket, ushering Jeph towards the door and passing the phone to Branden before bolting. It could well be nothing, perhaps Bert finally realised how bad things had become. Perhaps it had gotten too much, maybe he’d just reached the end of his tether…

Or, he was in serious danger.

He told Jeph what had passed between them on the phone as best he could, finding difficulty in articulating. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to be at the door.

Until, of course, he was.

Until they got no response, shout and scream as much as they did. Even after Jeph broke the door down- then, Quinn wished he was anywhere but there.

They found Bert by the door, curled in on himself, laying in a pool of dark red blood. A tiny spec of black and white in a sea of browny red. Quinn’s insides went cold, his head buzzing as his knees gave out. He barely heard the strangled cries Jeph made as he crawled through the sticky mess, encircling his hand around his friends neck, tilting his face up to look at him. Bert was a sickly grey shade, eyes thankfully closed, mouth slightly parted.

_Maybe it’s not too late._

Quinn pulled Bert up into a sitting position, cradling his ill supported head against his chest. He muttered something about calling an ambulance to Jeph, who was pacing the kitchen with his hands in his hair, rocking Bert slowly. He was freezing cold.

There was a load bang as something was kicked across the room. "Stop it, Quinn."

"He needs an ambulance, he’ll be fine, it’s okay-"

"He won’t be _fine_ , Quinn. Put him down, for fuck’s sake."

"We need an ambulance."

Jeph punched the wall by Bert’s bedroom door.

He was crying so _much_ , it was a wonder he could breathe.

But it’d be fine.

They’d sort him out.

He’d be okay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The funeral had been unbearable. Everyone Bert knew had been there, people had had to stand in the aisle and doorway. Quinn had tried to comfort Bert’s mother as best he could, being one of the only people not in floods of tears. She kept asking him _why_ , unable to get her head around how her beautiful, energetic son had managed to end so tragically. How she would never see him again, never tell him that she was proud of him, no matter what he did.

If Bert had been there, he would’ve made the whole ordeal more bearable.

Jeph didn’t talk to Quinn throughout the whole ceremony, shooting him blotchy-eyed glares instead, disgusted at the lack of emotion he was showing. He stood as far away from Quinn as possible during the burial, clearly distraught, only going within three feet of him for the carrying of the coffin. Quinn couldn’t look at it as it was lowered. It didn’t seem right.

Jeph continued his silent treatment during the ride to Bert’s apartment- both he and Quinn had offered to clear out his things, feeling it was too difficult on his family members, but that they were still close enough to Bert for it to mean something.

Quinn didn’t know what he expected the place to look like, no one had been in since Bert’s body had been moved. Yet it was so strange, to walk into the apartment and have _nothing_ be different- as if Bert could walk out of the bathroom at any given moment in nothing but his boxers, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, attempting to hold a conversation with them around the cleaning device. Quinn could almost hear his muffled laughing.

Jeph cleared his throat, darting his eyes around to avoid the dark red stain on the floor to his left. "We should get started." He said, voice thick as he strode towards the kitchen. He pulled a roll of black bags from under the sink, talking to Quinn over his shoulder as the latter pushed the door to. "You should check the bathroom, see if there’s anything worth keeping…"

"Sure…" Quinn took a few steps towards Jeph, extending his hand for one of the bags. He was moving on autopilot, un offended when Jeph thrust a bag in his general direction without looking at him. None of it seemed real- he was still waiting for Bert to appear from somewhere.

Quinn filled two bags with things from the bathroom- mostly broken or used products, things that would have to be thrown away. Bert had a few things on his windowsill that could be kept, which Quinn brought into the kitchen, leaving them on the counter. Jeph would know what to do with them.

He moved to the bedroom, unsure what else to do with himself and subconsciously aware of the noise coming from there. Jeph was going through Bert’s desk, sorting through a vast pile of paper, making smaller piles on the bed. It seemed rude, really- this paper was Bert’s work, his world. He showed a lot of it, made a living off it, but there were things he hadn’t chosen to show, too. Private things, personal things. They shouldn’t just be uprooted like that.

Quinn extended his hand, reaching for Jeph, wishing he’d stop but not being able to make the words come out. It wasn’t right. He had no right.

“Stop…”

Jeph looked up. “What?”

“They’re not yours…”

Jeph looked at him for a moment, before slamming the papers in his hand down with as much force as he could muster. “No, you’re right. But their owner is currently decaying in the ground, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to sort through his last earthly possessions with as much dignity and respect as I can!”

As soon as he was finished shouting, all the fight left Jeph. He seemed to turn completely flaccid, expression of rage slipping off his face like rain running down a window, as his body drooped, slumping with the aid of gravity to sit heavily on the end of Bert’s bed. Because it was still Bert’s bed.

“I don’t want this…” Jeph murmured, picking up a disturbed sheaf of paper and staring absently at it. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this…”

Quinn loitered in the doorway, hands now hanging uselessly at his sides. What was he meant to do? What could he do? And even if he knew, how could he possible move? Feel? Continue? He felt like a VHS tape that someone had paused, slowly flickering at the moment he answered Bert’s last phone call. Moving, jittering and animated with electricity, but just waiting, holding on to this suspension until someone hit ‘play’. He didn’t know when he would continue, and he didn’t have the capacity at this moment in time to care.

Jeph continued, “How am I supposed to look at this? How am I meant to see his handwriting, read his most intimate work when-” His voice caught in his throat. He swallowed painfully. “Here.” he stated, thrusting the paper in Quinn’s general direction without turning his head. “You’re clearly unphased, I didn’t want you near the important things, in case you threw out half of them. How can you know what’s emotionally important? You’re obviously handling this very well…” Jeph’s voice was bitter, nasty. Quinn contemplated being upset by it. Jeph’s tone indicated that Quinn should probably be upset. All he felt was cold.

The older man rose from the bed, striding towards the door with a lot less force and authority then he had had when entering through it. “But I just… Can’t. I can’t do this.”

Jeph moved to another part of the apartment, mumbling about how it ‘wasn’t meant to be like this’, how it ‘wasn’t fair’ and he ‘can’t do it.’ Quinn wasn’t sure if he was meant to be listening or not.

He sat down with the papers.

Reading over the words in front of him, Quinn could practically hear Bert saying them. Hear his low, scratchy voice, hear precisely where he enunciated, felt the rhythm of the poetry. As he always had done before Bert stopped showing him work, Quinn fell in love with what was written on the paper.

Everything he picked up went into the ‘keep’ pile.

After a few minutes, he picked up a sheet of paper ripped out from an A4 jotter, the side ripped clearly ripped inwards, haphazardly saved by tearing a small triangle out. There were words strewn across it with very few crossings out, scribbles or doodles- which usually only happened on pieces that Bert wrote in passion, anything contemplated was edited a million times- spaced out like verse. At the top of the paper, underlined like a badly sized title, was the word ‘Quinn.’

Quinn started, passing his eyes over the words, reading them with as much depth as he had read everything else, only this time with more interest. He vaguely noticed Jeph enter the room again, storm out, return, say something to him, raise his voice- Quinn was paying him no mind.

_‘And it's all in how you mix the two,_   
_And it starts just where the light exists._   
_It’s a feeling that you cannot miss_   
_And it burns a hole through everyone that feels it-’_

The words were beautiful, as beautiful and heart felt as they always were, but there was more this time. Or, not more, but it was more obvious to Quinn. Something that had always been there, he’d just never really… focussed on before. A background tone that hadn’t seemed important until now.

“What?”

What was it though?

_‘And you never would have thought, in the end_   
_How amazing it feels, just to live again-’_

“What did you just say?!”

There was so much love in these words, so much honesty and adoration. Peace. Is peace the word I’m looking for? Bert would know…

“Give me that.” Jeph asked, holding his hand out for the paper in Quinn’s hands. He spoke more softly than before, and didn’t snatch at the paper. Why did he look so confused?

Had Quinn been talking out loud?

He passed the piece of paper to his friend, carefully watching his expression. “What do you think it means, Jeph…?”

As Jeph read over the beautiful words, his face showed expressions of pure turmoil and despair. ‘Peace’ was obviously not what he got from it. ‘Gut-wrenching agony’, perhaps.

Jeph lowered the paper, looking Quinn fully in the eye for the first time. His jaw was set, mouth in a stern line, tears glistening in his eyes. “What do you think it means.”

Quinn shrugged uselessly. “I don’t-”

“No.” Jeph replied simply, placing the paper next to Quinn. “No, I refuse to believe that you’re that stupid. Even _you_ aren’t that stupid.”

Quinn blinked at him. “What do you-”

“Think about it, boy. Think for just one second.” Quinn resented being called ‘boy’ by a man barely older than him. Jeph was riled again, though, and worse than before, speaking in low hissing tones. “Think back on Bert, for just _one_ minute. What do you think he could _possibly_ mean by this piece with _your_ name on it. How about all the other pieces, those ones which are slightly, _slightly_ less obvious. How about the looks? His actions? Body language? How often would he drop everything for you? Honestly, Quinn, think about it!”

Whatever it was, Quinn wasn’t getting it. Everything was rushing past him at a mile a minute, images and memories flickering in front of his eyes. Things he remembered, as they were, warped, how was he supposed to be remembering everything? He couldn’t grasp the meaning anywhere. He preferred being a paused VHS image. “… Jeph, I-”

Jeph barked a laughed, running his hands through his hair in despair, not looking at Quinn for a moment. When he finally looked up, a lot of the anger had drained from his face, replaced with a disappointed sorrow. “He loved you, Quinn. Not like he loved me, and not how he pretended to the rest of the world. He was completely, utterly, _disgustingly_ in love with you. You were absolutely everything to him, his one true writing muse- why do you think he showed it all to you? Who d’you think inspired 80% of it? And you never… Never even noticed.”

Jeph was pacing the room as he spoke, voice filling with passion, despair, suppressed rage. Quinn didn’t know how he was supposed to be feeling. The room felt a lot louder than it was. “You never saw it, never saw how much your oblivion crushed him, how much your niceness ate him up. He was a complete mess over you, all the time. And he knew it, and he hated it, despised himself for not being able to stop loving you. And _you_ ,” Jeph turned his attentions back to a quivering Quinn, “ _you_ came to _me_ about your confusions, and I _told_ you to talk to him. He finally admitted it to me and _I told him to talk to you_. If one of you, just _one_ of you had actually had the God damn _common sense_ to _listen_ to me, for once in your stupid _motherfucking_ lives, if either of you had just considered that _I know what the fuck I am talking about-_ ” Jeph was shouting now, voice shaking with rage and misery. Tears were flowing freely from his eyes as he spoke, hitting his fist just below the light fitting for emphasis. “Just _one_ of you… Then maybe this wouldn’t… Maybe Bert wouldn’t be…” He choked on the end of his sentence, knees giving out beneath him. He sat in a heap on the floor, leaning back against the wall and pulling his knees up to his chest. He covered his face with his hands, uncapped his emotions, and grieved his loss.

He should’ve moved. He should’ve comforted his friend. He should’ve done something, denied it, burst into tears, shouted back, pinched himself to see if he was still there. But he couldn’t. Breathing was difficult enough.

Memories of subtle looks and strange phrases passed over him, words Bert had showed him, things that had stuck with him, stupid drunken mistakes. He felt cold, numb. Not through not feeling or not believing- through feeling it all. He felt like his head was about to explode.

Quinn crumpled, giving up on sitting straight, falling to his side on Bert’s bed. As soon as his head hit the pillow he could smell the previous owner on it. The best friend that he had lost, that he had clearly never fully understood.

For the first time since Bert called him, the tape started playing again. Screeching, cacophonous, painful noise with vivid, garish images. Over stimulation, too much, too _much_.

For the first time, it hit him.

Bert was actually gone.

Every wall inside him broke down, tears flowing for the first time in so long, unable to stop the screams clawing their way out of his throat. Jeph dragged himself up onto the bed and wrapped himself around his grieving friend, trying his best to comfort his despite Quinn’s choked screams of "I don’t want _you_ ". The world continued to collapse as the two friend laid curled up on their deceased friend’s unmade bed, painfully aware of the gaping hole left in their lives.

_And all that he was_   
_is just a tragedy…_

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the scene after 'and he took his life' took a lot out of me, and if it had worked well enough I would've left it there. But hey, the endings pretty important too so... Thank you to everyone who read/enjoyed/etc, and again huge thanks to Riley/podfic for saving my life ;_; Epilogue should be out sometime soon, peace xx


	6. Sky High - Epilogue

Quinn ran his fingers through his brown hair, sorting out the papers from his last class before setting up for the next. Kids always complained about getting homework, but they only had to do one lot of it. Teacher had to mark 30 copies of the same thing. Quinn knew which he'd prefer.

"What time's your next lot in?" The man sat on one of the student desks, kicking his feet rhythmlessly against the table leg, asked Quinn. The noise was really starting to annoy him.

"Next period, won't be long now, you?"

"Nah, I got a free now, gonna try and get some of those tests marked... Wife's got us a baby sitter for the night, don't really wanna have to be working."

Quinn looked up from what he was doing, smiling at his friend. "Someone's in for a good night, 'ey?"

"You bet your ass I am, I'd insist on a highfive but you're doing your work thing..."

"Maybe later, Dan."

"Yeah, maybe."

Quinn laughed, turning to his laptop and looking for the slides he'd prepared for the next lesson.

"You doing that awareness session now?"

"Yeah."

"Have fun with that."

"Trust me, I won't."

"What's it been now, nine years?"

"Ten."

"Shit dude, I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry about it, s'not like you knew him..."

"I can still be sorry though." Leaving his seat on the desk, Dan put his hand on Quinn's shoulder, squeezing firmly and willing him to look up. Which was not going to happen.

Students started filing into the room, half of them bored and uninterested, half of them excited to spend the next hour with Mr. Allman. Even at 30 he was still the 'hottest' teacher in school, something that Dan found very unfair and Quinn found particularly hilarious. "I'll see you later, 'kay?"

"I'm not leaving straight away tonight, I'll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your night out."

Dan paused by the doorway. "... 'Kay, see you. And thanks, I will." He raised his hand in a half hearted wave before leaving the room.

Quinn turned to the nearly full room of students, trying not to look at the end of the slides. Not just yet, anyway.

"Right, settle down guys, I've got something slightly different for you today..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once he had achieved a low murmur- seriously the best he was going to get with 16 year olds- Quinn leant back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desk and looked out at their expectant faces. This was his favourite part of every day, this power just before he started to teach, all eyes on him, waiting for his guidance. It made him a little cocky, sure- he was sure none of the other teachers put their feet on the desk like it was their home- but it earnt him a certain respect from the students. Don't ever fuck with a figure of authority that disregards convention.

He gave them a small smile. "As I said, today's a little different, and if anyone feels they have to leave during the presentation, seriously just go stand outside for a bit, I get it. You don't need to ask, just go."

Confusion and worry swept across the room with a more audible murmur, the students evidently somewhat nervous about just what their teacher was going to be showing them.

A boy on the second to back row cautiously put his hand up. "Sir... You're not gonna show us your junk or anything, right?" Despite the sincerity of his question, the room exploded into roars of laughter.

Quinn chose to ignore the backhanded insult, calmly replying. "No, Vince, you're all  _far_  too young for me, thanks. Really doesn't do it for me." Removing his feet, Quinn set up the first slide, ignoring the sounds of disappointment from the girls in the front row. Any excuse to politely advise them to stop trying to win his heart, Quinn would take.

He lent back, blank slide up and ready to progress. Quinn didn't believe in title pages, they were stupid. "Our topic today isn't all that pleasant, but it's important for me to give you this advice, not only on a professional level, but on a personal one, too." The room was quieter than it had ever been during one of Quinn's classes, everyone waiting tentatively to see what horror was in store for them.

Quinn crossed his arms and addressed the class. "How many of you like yourselves?"

The room was quiet, before a couple of unsure hands started drifting up slowly, wavering, not a single one sure of themselves. He'd expected as much.

"Look around, it's not many, is it? Now I'm not going to tell you that you should like yourselves because you're all great people, one because it's patronising and two because you'll all come to terms with yourself as you get older anyway." He lent forward, forearms propping him up on the desk. "So, how many of you actively dislike yourselves?"

A few hands went up again. Good, Quinn thought, glad it wasn't too many of them. No one should ever feel like that.

"Okay. Now this time you don't have to put your hand up, I just want you to think about it. How many of you have wanted to hurt yourself or thought you were better off dead?" At least half of the students faces changed then, turning much more solemn, ashamed, guilty. The other half looked shocked and confused. Quinn could tell straight off which ones would have raised their hand if they'd had the courage.

Leaving the room in stunned silence, Quinn changed the slide behind him, showing a thin, dark scruffy haired boy in his teens beaming at the camera, out into the room. "This," Quinn pointed to the picture over his shoulder. "Is Bert. He's 16 years old, full of life, dangerously intelligent, aspirational, popular... Whatever, you name it. He has his life set out for him." 

Quinn changed the current slide to the next picture- one of Bert from too many years ago, a photocopied polaroid from the night Quinn had been trigger happy with his new camera. "Now, four years later, he's struggling. Struggling for money, struggling with self abuse, no contact with his family, unsure how to talk to his closest friends about what was happening. And I know," Quinn lent forward again, focusing on the class so he didn't have to look at the picture staring back at him from his laptop screen. It still hurt. "I know how difficult it is to talk to people, I do. But once it's done, that's the hard part over. There are people who can help, don't ever feel like you're alone in what you're feeling."

He felt bad about the amount of hurt faces looking back at him, ones he had struck a chord with, too many eyes holding back tears. He had to get through it. "Bert lost his job. He couldn't find work, being hopelessly depressed, no one would hire him. He spent all his time on his own with nothing but his own thoughts, letting everything around him rot and not talking to anyone. Eventually, it got the better of him." Quinn swallowed past the lump in his throat. He could do this. Several people had already started to cry, one or two having to leave. He'd go talk to them soon. "Bert took his own life when he was just 20 years old."

Ignoring the voice in his head that said maybe this was too much for a lesson, Quinn turned to the next picture. It was from the same night as the one before, Bert wrapped up in a taller friends arms, not looking at the camera, smiling widely, eyes crinkling, hand coming up to cover his grin. The man holding him, beaming at the camera, was a younger version of himself, all bleached blond hair and high hopes. "... Bert was my best friend. He died ten years ago today, and it still hurts. I couldn't help him in time, I didn't know what was happening inside of him. You don't need to be like that."

He looked at his class, impressed that he was still holding it together. "We live in a different time now. And you all have at least one teacher who definitely understands, who has watched a close friend suffer through it before going through it himself. Forgive me for breaking my professional boundaries, but..." He paused for a moment, doubting his choice in sharing quite so much about himself. Whatever, it would get the point across. "I was institutionalized for just under three years. I didn't cope with the loss too good. You don't have to do that. You're stronger than I am. You can do it."

Quinn rubbed the end of his nose, unable to tear his eyes away from the picture in front of him. "I'm gonna let you guys go, if anyone wants to stay behind and talk, nothing you say leaves this room. If you don't want to, you're free to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quinn hadn't seen Jeph for almost nine years.

After Bert passed, he and Jeph had been inseparable, being the only people that actually understood what the other was going through.  Quinn had spent many consecutive nights in Jeph's bed, sobbing into his shoulder as the elder man stroked his hair. They'd had their own world, their own way to keep Bert alive. Pathetic, misery driven advances were the only contact either of them would have for years, unable to feel anything otherwise. Unable to feel much ever then.

But Jeph had handled it a lot better, and where he got slowly better, Quinn got dramatically worse. It was too difficult for Jeph to be around Quinn, which was understandable, to a point, but more than a little unfair. After his stay at the hospital, Quinn didn't see Jeph. He never came to visit, either. The logical side of his brain knew that Jeph couldn't handle losing both of his best friends, that he'd shut himself off because his mind couldn't cope, but Quinn couldn't help but feel somewhat abandoned.

"You should call him, Quinn." He adamantly ignored the voice in his mind as the last of his students were filing out of the room, sniffling and red eyed. "I mean, it's been ten years."

Packing up his things as the bell rang, Quinn looked everywhere he could that wasn't the table at the back, on the right. The psych ward doctors had helped him with this- not engaging with his imagination meant he could handle most day to day situations. As far as his doctor knew, they'd completely stopped now.

"I mean, I know that it sucks, only seeing each other when it's about this... 'tragedy' or whatever, it sucks big time, but... I dunno, ten years man... What if Jeph forgot me?" The voice questioned, sounding slightly more uninterested than sympathetic now.

Quinn picked up the flowers under his desk that he had bought that morning, and made his way to the door, giving no attention to the scrabbled movement in the room behind him. And if he stayed holding the door open for a little longer than was strictly necessary before locking it, what of it? It's not like he was waiting for the boy to slip through the door before it was locked. He wasn't real.

But no one was around to see him, so Quinn let it slide.

Walking to his car, Quinn took his phone out of his pocket, opening his contacts and hovering over Jeph's name. Should he call him? Would Jeph want to see him again? It had been so long since they'd spoken, maybe he didn't even remember Quinn. Maybe he didn't want to remember what day it was today? Maybe forgetting was how he coped now.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket, got into his car and started the ignition, waiting for the movement in the corner of his eye to stop fumbling with the seat belt before setting off.

When Quinn had first started having these hallucinations they had terrified him, leaving him screaming in his bed at night, sobbing, wanting them to be real but horrified of what that would mean. He was pretty sure it was a big part of why he was institutionalised for so long, though as soon as he stopped mentioning visions of his dead friend, they had decided he was recovering and was 'healthy'. He'd just learnt how to not answer Bert whenever he spoke.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still held onto the hope that it was Bert's ghost he was seeing, but reality told him it was his own mind trying to cope. Grief does strange things to people, but he couldn't prove to himself the concept of the soul living on after death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It pisses me off that you don't talk to me outside the house, you know." Bert confessed, kicking at the dirt under his shoe as Quinn locked his car, making his way towards the cemetery, flowers clutched loosely in his right hand.

"Well, what d'you expect me to do..." Quinn replied, muttering out of the side of his mouth now that he was out of the car. Despite the fact that they- or rather, he- were approaching an empty graveyard with no one else around to be seen, Quinn had become used to not talking to Bert outside of his own home. It felt strange to break the habit.

Bert huffed, image appearing much brighter as they got closer to his grave. "I expect you to talk to me, openly, like everyone can see me. Go insane, get put in a loony bin, the whole shebang. It'd be hilarious."

"Been there, done that." Quinn replied stiffly, stopping in front of the modest grave. "I'm 'better' now, God knows what they'd do to me if they found out I'd been lying about that..."

Bert snorted, kneeling down in front of the slightly weathered stone and tracing his fingers over the lettering. The quote had been Quinn's idea, inspired by his persistent visions. Bert's mother had loved the idea, the words filling her with hope that her beloved son was not forgotten to the world forever, that he lived on as long as she loved him.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there- I do not sleep._

"I think it's pretty morbid you know." Bert mused. "I do sleep, in there. I'm just active in your mind, is all."

Quinn sat cross-legged in front of the grave stone, laying the flowers carefully before it. There was a elegant bunch of roses, genetically modified to boast blue petals arranged to one side of the headstone. 

Jeph had been here.

"I still find it hard sometimes to believe you're in my head, dude. You look practically tangible."

"Well, I dunno, maybe ghosts  _are_  real? What proof do we actually have, huh?"

Quinn smiled sadly. "What unfinished business do you have though? Why the hell would you be stuck here?"

Bert turned to Quinn, smiling softly. "I never told you how much I love you, for one."

Quinn's stomach fell. He hated that he'd reminded himself of that, of his own blatant ignorance. If he'd paid attention to what Bert had really been saying, maybe this wouldn't have-

No, this was not the time for that.

Bert snorted. "That or, maybe I just like it here, you know? Bothering you all day's great."

Quinn sighed. If 'ghosts' or whatever actually existed, Bert would not be spending every second with him. He'd almost certainly spend the most part with his family, Quinn was sure.

He ran his fingers over the now solid earth before him. He remembered when it had first been loosened, when the coffin was first lowered. It had disgusted him- Bert didn't belong in the ground.

Tugging at the grass, he spoke aloud again. "You know, I used to try and come out here."

"Yeah, I know."

"Try and break away from the doctors, get a shovel-"

"I remember."

"Can you just let me say it? Please?"

The voice was silent for a moment. Quinn took that as a sign for him to speak his mind.

He breathed in deeply, mind spinning back to that time. "... I wanted to dig you up."

Graciously receiving no reply, Quinn continued:

"I wanted to break your coffin open and get in with you. To apologise, to tell you how much I loved you, how shit I was for letting everything get so bad for you. I wanted to curl around you and shut the lid- be buried alive, stay with you. I didn't know what I was doing..."

A moment passed before Bert spoke. "That's so romantic."

Quinn gave a bitter laugh, "I guess..."

"But you can't possibly blame yourself for my life sucking. If I'd been completely hunky dory mentally, d'you think I'd've reacted like that to unrequited love? No, I'd have become a poet and made millions off my pain."

Tears had escaped the corners of Quinn's eyes, hitting the grass softly. Despite himself, he laughed through the hitching of his beath. Crying over Bert  _again_ - he needed a new hobby.

"You need to stop blaming yourself. It's been ten years, dude- _ten_. C'mon, time to admit that this wasn't your fault, not even a bit."

Quinn swallowed back sobs as best he could. He couldn't accept he was guilt free, if not because it wasn't true then because he could lose the only thing keeping him sane if he did. "If," he wiped at his eyes, taking a deep breath, "if I accept that you're gone, accept my innocence, accept everything; are you... Are you gonna disappear? For good?"

"I dunno dude," Bert smiled, "you tell me."

Quinn looked at the elusive figure before him, tears persistently brimming on his eye lashes despite his best efforts."... I don't ever want you to go..."

"Well then, in that case," Bert rose from where he'd been sitting, dusting off his knees. "Doesn't look like I'm going anywhere. Come on, let's make a move."

He extended his hand to Quinn, who didn't take it- there was nothing for him to actually grab, it was pointless- standing up and making his way to the entrance of the grave yard.

As he reached the gate he turned around, regarding the grave again.

"Until next year, buddy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a year later, I'm finally finished. I'm so sAD MY BABY'S ALL GROWN UP Wipes tears
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story, who has favourited, commented, etc; and for everyone who has helped me, who has suffered through my questioning and doubts. Everyone who has kept me motivated and given me honest feedback- I may never have finished without you, y'all know who you are.
> 
> Peace xxxx


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